


Toy Story

by Moonflower_Rose



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bisexual Harry Potter, Cursed Dildos, Did I mention the Cursed Dildos?, First Time, Head Auror Ron Weasley, Healer Hermione Granger, Inexperienced Harry Potter, M/M, Ministry Worker Harry Potter, Quidditch Player Ginny Weasley, Sex Shop Owner Draco Malfoy, Yes that's right I said Cursed Dildos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-08 00:44:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 28,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17971226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonflower_Rose/pseuds/Moonflower_Rose
Summary: A politician, a cursed dildo, and a minor workplace accident. All in a day’s work for one Harry Potter.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was born in 2012 as a Career Fair prompt from ginger_veela. I unfortunately had an attack of the real life's and never got to finish this, but it never left my mind, and so here we are. Ginger_veela, if you're still around, sorry this is seven years late...
> 
> Original fest info below:
> 
>  **Prompt Number:** [#81](http://hd-fan-fair.livejournal.com/29796.html)  
> Era: Post-Hogwarts  
> Scenario: Harry is the Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. Reports of bewitched dildos and enchanted arse plugs lead him to a Knockturn Alley sex shop, whose proprietor, Draco Malfoy, opens his eyes (and orifices) to the joys of kinky sex.  
> Additions: Would love to see the author come up with some imaginative 'misuses' of Muggle sex toys. :D  
> Squicks: For this prompt, please no heavy angst or unhappy endings.  
> Maximum Rating: The higher, the better.  
> Submitted by: ginger_veela  
>  **Career Choices:** Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, Proprietor of a Knockturn Alley sex shop  
>  **Rating:** R

_**THROTTLEBOTTOM FINDS FRISKY FOREST OF PHALLUSES IN FRONT GARDEN** _

__

_Sources close to the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot have revealed exclusively to the **Daily Prophet** that early this morning, while investigating a suspicious noise at his front gate, the respected Mr Balter Throttlebottom, OM, was shocked to discover his award winning garden had been burgled. The bold bandits replaced every bush of blooming roses with a shrub quivering under the weight of what can only be described as blushing, bawdy buds: perky purple penises. _

_This reporter understands that the Auror Corps have assigned a team of investigators to get to the bottom of this titillating crime, which some have already speculated may be the work of notorious protest group C.U.M. (Citizens United against the Ministry). Head Auror Ronald Weasley could not be reached for comment at the time of publishing, nor have C.U.M. officially claimed the prank on behalf of their cause. Chief Warlock Throttlebottom has also refused to provide a comment on the matter to the **Prophet** , and sources have confirmed that he is in fact attempting strenuously to keep the unfortunate incident out of the press. _

_For more on this breaking scandal, please see the afternoon edition._

“Couldn’t have happened to a nicer bloke,” Harry murmured, thumbing through the pages of his paper til he found the Quidditch scores. He normally tried to avoid the tabloid press at all costs, and the _Quibbler_ would have his loyalty for as long as there was a Lovegood in the editor’s chair. But Ginny was supposed to be at the family dinner that evening at the Burrow, and Harry had somehow managed to sleep through the sports update the night before on the wireless. If he showed up without knowing the Harpies place on the league table, Ginny would kick his arse, which would be entertaining for everyone other than Harry, and Hermione might accuse him of being a workaholic again based purely on one ill-timed nap. He could frankly live without a repeat of the dreaded intervention of 2008. Hence, the early edition of the _Daily Prophet_ , complete with its unmissable front page headline.

“Harpies thumped the Prides...best on pitch...Ginevra Weasley.” Harry grinned. “That’s my girl. Now...Cannons, Cannons, Can-...ah. Well, I suppose that’s a topic which might be best avoided.” He pinched the tabbed string of his tea bag between two fingers, and swished it in a slow circle around the perimeter of his cup. A neat stack of toast sat on a plate between himself and his newspaper, and the butter had melted into a warm golden puddle on top. Harry folded the paper in half, then half again, and propped it up against the sugar bowl so he could skim the classifieds, whilst cupping his tea with both hands. The mornings were getting just this side of nippy lately, and he would need to get into the habit of setting a fire in the old potbellied stove again, as the kitchen was large, and he was pants at Warming charms.

“You going to eat that?” Freckled fingers reached for the toast, and Harry cast a mild Stinging jinx under his breath without reaching for his wand, or indeed looking up from an advert for an extra large cauldron for sale, slightly used. Ron made a yowling noise that Harry was pretty sure he’d picked up from Crookshanks. “I’m Head Auror, you know. I could have you in Azkaban for that.”

“It would never stick. For a start, you tried to steal food from the very mouth of the Saviour of the Wizarding World. Secondly, you clearly broke into my private home in order to do so. I think I could have _you_ in Azkaban for that, actually.”

“You’ve changed,” Ron said, staring sadly at the toast. “Time was, you would have spared a crumb of toast for a starving man, who hasn’t eaten in days.”

Harry took out his wand and circled several suspicious advertisements, the words sucking right up into the tip of his wand from the page. “You have porridge on your robes, you lunatic.” Ron looked down and said several very rude words, then rubbed at the stains with one sleeve. 

“Fuck’s sake. I’ve got a meeting...do you still have a pair of spare robes?”

“Auror robes? Yeah, but Ron...” Harry aimed, and hit the streak of porridge with a _Scourgify_. The stain vanished. “You’re a wizard.”

Ron looked sheepish. “Please come back to the Aurors. I’m begging you.”

Harry laughed. “Not enough galleons in the world for that, mate.” He gave the paper one last look, then collected it and his now empty tea cup, and took both to the sink, dropping the paper onto the towering pile of old _Quibblers_ beside the stove to use for kindling later. The used tea bag landed with a soggy plop in the rubbish bin under the sink, and Harry gave the cup a brief rinse. “Do you want a lift in? I’ve still got a Ministry car from that job last Tuesday.”

Harry turned around when Ron didn’t answer, and found him wedging the last triangle of Harry’s toast into his already crammed mouth, looking only slightly ashamed of himself. “Wathabou ith I mathe yoo Heth Auler?”

“Head Auror...otherwise known as, _your_ job.”

Ron’s cheeks bulged, and he swallowed with what looked like difficulty. “Yeah, but I’m clearly incompetent. Wouldn’t it be nice to be a department head?”

Harry shrugged on his outer robe, and patted his pockets for his wallet and wand. “I am a department head, Ron. That’s what that fancy dinner was all about, the one where you ate most of a whole roasted pig?”

Ron rubbed his stomach absently and looked fond for a moment. “That was some top notch crackling.”

“Do you want a lift, or not? Don’t you have a meeting?”

Ron moaned. “Yes. Our dear Chief Warlock has got himself a front garden full of cocks, as you might have heard.” He followed Harry out the back door, closing it behind them, and through the garden to the rear gate. Harry unlocked the old, slightly battered-looking Volkswagen Polo parked in the laneway behind the house, and he and Ron slid in. The interior condition of the car was somewhat at odds with its exterior. The soft leather seats creaked comfortably, and the radio switched on automatically, filling the cavernous back seat with the latest hit from The Sneaky Tweezers. There was a pleasant smell of leather polish and carpet foam, and Ron immediately lifted the lever to ease the seat all the way back to stretch out the entire length of his legs. “Do you mind if I change the station? I can’t stand this Sneaky Tweezer shite. Whatever happened to decent bands, like the Weird Sisters?”

The engine rumbled to life, and Harry grinned at Ron. “They got old. We’re not so far behind them, you know.” He eased the car out of the laneway and onto the main street, and before long they were cutting swiftly through the quickly thickening Muggle traffic like a hot knife through butter, courtesy of a combination of Disillusionment charms, and the sorts of spells which allow a car to pass directly through the middle of a roundabout, shrubbery and all, without harm. Harry was particularly fond of that part.

Ron fiddled with the buttons until he found something less offensive to his tender ears. “So, I imagine it’s early in the investigation considering it only happened last night, but any leads on this forest of knobs situation?”

Ron slouched down in his seat, poking the nearest air vent with obvious annoyance. “Other than those ‘came’ twits? Not really. The guy is exceedingly unpopular, it could have been anyone – it could have been his own _wife_. He’s demanding just completely unreasonable resources for the investigation. He asked me to recall Shacklebolt. Shacklebolt! Like, as if he’s just been off fieldwork for the last fifteen years, or something. He’s the fucking Minister for Magic!”

Harry smothered a laugh. “It’s C.U.M., Ron.”

He looked confused. “What’s come?”

Harry shook his head. “C.U.M. – the Citizens United against the Ministry.”

Ron threw up his hands. “C.U.M., go, I couldn’t give a fuck really, as long as I can get on with some actual work instead of wasting my team’s time on ridiculous pranks.”

The wards surrounding the Ministry parking garage dragged over the car before releasing it, and Harry aimed for a parking space between a sleek silver limousine, and an old fashioned Mini which was the precise colour of peanut butter. “Between stealing my breakfast and ranting about Knobgate, I nearly forgot to ask you if there was an actual reason for your visit this morning.”

Ron’s eyes widened. “Fuck! Yes – Hermione’s birthday. I need gift help.” 

They discussed Ron’s present dilemma in earnest as they made their way through the car park to the restroom, where in turn they each flushed themselves all the way to the Atrium at the Ministry Headquarters. By the time the lift doors clattered open at Level Two, Harry had successfully talked Ron out of a subscription to _Quidditch Weekly_ , a home brew butterbeer distiller, and a year’s supply of Honeydukes finest Fizzing Whizzbees. 

“I’m telling you, Ron – keep it simple. Take her somewhere nice for dinner, and then a night at a nice hotel. And the Leaky does not count for either of those. Get her some flowers, she likes roses, right?”

Ron grabbed the front of Harry’s robes. “ _Please_ come back and work with me.”

Harry laughed and patted Ron on the shoulder. “I’ll see you at dinner tonight.”

The Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office occupied a small suite of rooms at the far end of Level Two. Small gold-painted letters marked their territory on the rippled glass of a faded wooden door, opening to a modest foyer that housed two plastic visitor chairs, a dusty potted plant, and a frazzled-looking receptionist behind a narrow counter. Harry’s office was behind the first of four adjoining doors; a meeting room that was barely the size of a broom cupboard squeezed immediately beside it. The third door led to an office shared by his four long-suffering field officers, and the final door led to Harry’s favourite place in the whole Ministry: the lab.

“’Morning, Vicky.”

“’Morning, sir. If I may, could I have the car keys back, sir? Fleet have threatened to send a Howler every hour starting at lunchtime if you don’t return them today.”

Harry rolled his eyes, and handed over the keys. “You’re a few days late returning one little Volkswagen and the administration is ready to toss you in Azkaban.”

“Sorry sir, thank you. The files you requested are on your desk. Can I interest you in a cup of tea?”

“That would be grand, thank you Vicky.” Harry fished out his wand. “I took care of the _Prophet_ check this morning, could you let Devlin know?” Vicky unlocked a battered filing cabinet which had been squeezed with some difficulty into the space between her counter and the wall, and lifted out a shallow bowl which looked something like a miniature Pensieve. Harry tapped his wand against the lip, and all of the collected words tumbled back out, gathering themselves into their correct order before floating gently away into the slightly cloudy depths of the bowl. “Ta. I’ll be in my office going over those files until half-ten, then I’ll be in the lab working on the cursed toasters if anybody’s looking for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Harry closed his office door behind him and wrinkled his nose at the immediate and sour odour of ink, no doubt originating from the tall stack of files now residing on his desk. If Harry disliked one thing about his job, it was the paperwork; but then, he never had been particularly fond of it, not as an Auror and certainly not when he was at school. What he had learned, however, was that if he buckled down and got it done, he could play for as long as he liked in the lab without various department heads breathing down his neck about late reports. He _had_ thought Hermione would be proud when he told her of his epiphany, but instead she worriedly took his temperature and pulse, and warned him that she’d be watching him to make sure he wasn’t overdoing it.

The very idea was ridiculous, Harry thought to himself, not for the first time, as he sat down and flipped open the first of the waiting files. Hermione’s constant fretting that he was becoming anti-social, was burying himself in his job as a way to avoid dealing with the world at large, and such apparently catastrophic issues as his status as a bachelor, had been steadily driving him up the wall. _He_ was certainly not worried about being single at his age, and thirty-two was still practically juvenile, actually. 

_Didn’t you just tell Ron this morning that we’re all getting old?_

“Not the same thing at all,” Harry muttered to himself. So what if he didn’t really go out much? And, yes, maybe it had been a little while since he’d been on a proper date...a few months...or maybe a year. Years. It wasn’t like he didn’t have a perfectly active sex life. Well, actually, he didn’t have anything near an active sex life, unless you could characterise a cursory evening wank in the shower as either ‘active’, or a ‘sex life’. Things had just become a lot more complicated since Ginny. Meeting people who were not secretly weirdoes, fuckwits or Death Eaters was actually a lot harder than it sounded, and he’d wanted to be respectful to Gin, give her time to move on, minimise the speculation about what had caused the end to what _Witch Weekly_ had dubbed their ‘fairytale romance’.

_But surely ten years is sufficient time?_

“Shut up, Hermione!”

“Sir?” Vicky stood at the door, a cup of tea in hand. Harry felt his ears redden. “Shall I come back at a better time?”

“Sorry Vicky, just a little internal debate that became external.” He took the cup from her extended hands, and balanced it on top of his Out tray. “You’re a star, thank you.” Vicky left as silently as she had come in, and Harry gave his mental Hermione a stern glare, and turned his mind toward his reports with determination. There was nothing wrong with his personal life, no matter what Subconscious Hermione, or actual Hermione, had to say about it.

The morning passed relatively quickly after that, and before he knew it Harry was back in his favourite white lab robe at his preferred workbench, with the dissected remains of a Muggle toaster spread before him. His wand dipped and slashed in the space above the appliance, wisps of yellow emerging from the tip and settling, criss-crossed, over the chrome insides. The problem with the toasters had been obvious – they breathed fire, dragon-style, from each of their toast slots, which had led to a number of painful injuries to Muggles, and a few Muggle-born magical folk who had purchased the cursed appliances from a particular ALDI just outside of Barnsley. And tracking down each and every toaster had also been relatively straightforward, with the application of a spell Harry had developed himself a few years earlier. The toasters had now been rounded up and impounded in a secure storage unit, the victims treated for their injuries, and Memory charms applied where required. The tricky part was figuring out who was responsible, and so it was with great patience that Harry teased at the spellwork, unravelling layers of magic until, hopefully, he would eventually reach what he was looking for: a unique magical fingerprint which would lead them to their suspect.

“Come on, you little prick...I’ve almost got you...” With a short glass rod Harry pushed aside the now spent threads of yellow spellwork, which dissolved on contact with the safety mat with a quiet sizzle. With great care and precision, a single yellow thread emerged from his wand tip, hardly the width of a human hair, and Harry placed it upon the exposed parts very gently, turning his wand in a careful loop until the strand broke free and settled completely on its target. This time, the toaster pieces themselves turned a shade of mustardy gold, and Harry readied his wand and an empty phial. It took only a few seconds, and the various pieces of toaster simply disintegrated before his eyes, leaving a curl of sallow vapour behind, and a strong odour of sulphur. Harry collected the vapour in his phial with a pleased sound, and firmly pressed the cork back into the neck of it. By the looks of it, that was about the best quality sample he had ever collected, and there should be plenty of the stuff to combine with the tracking charm, which would lead them right to their culprit’s front door. He or she would be in Auror hands by the end of the week.

The door to the lab burst open and Harry looked up, startled, to find Devlin in the doorway holding an enormous branch from what looked like some sort of flowering bush. Harry pushed his glasses back up his nose, from where they had slowly slid down to hang precariously from the tip. The branch, and Devlin, came back into focus, and Harry realised that what had at first appeared to be flowers were actually large, semi-opaque rubber cocks.

“Er...thanks, Devlin. You shouldn’t have?”

Devlin blinked, and looked from his delivery to Harry, and back again. “Oh – yes, good one, Mr Potter. Mr Weasley sent for me urgently, and asked me to bring these samples over as a priority. From the Throttlebottom case.”

“Mmm, yes, I gathered as much.” Harry squinted at Devlin’s armload of dicks, in no hurry to reach out and claim them. “Did our good friend Mr Weasley happen to provide any further information? I was under the impression that this case was more of a political stunt than anything to do with our sort of investigations.”

Devlin shifted his cargo from one arm to the other, and fished a file from within the folds of his robes, its cover an instantly recognisable Auror red. Harry took it from him and flipped to the first page case summary. “Apparently there’s evidence suggesting this-” Harry gestured towards a disturbingly wobbling knob. “Devlin, you’d better put those down. So, the Auror investigation has uncovered evidence that this was the result of a cursed Muggle object.” Harry lifted a trio of large crime scene photographs from the file and showed them to Devlin, arms now free of his burden. A dirt-caked dildo was pictured at the bottom of a shallow hole in what was presumably Throttlebottom’s garden; the next was a somewhat blurry shot of an Auror lifting the thing out of the hole, the lack of focus probably a result of the photographer shaking with laughter. Harry recognised the symptoms; nearly all of Ron’s stag night pictures had ended up in the same condition, as Neville had been designated the official photographer, and proved to be an exceptionally giggly drunk. 

The third picture was a close-up of the base of the toy. Most of the dirt had been brushed away, and a row of raised numbers was visible, probably some sort of model code, or serial number, along with a distinct stamp declaring ‘MADE IN CHINA’. Harry sighed. Definitely Muggle. And almost certainly tampered with by magic, if the potato-like roots creeping from the underside were any indication. “Mr Weasley said it was rather urgent, sir.”

“I don’t want to investigate this,” Harry said mournfully. “I have biting tea cups. I even have biting toilet seats. There’s been a lot of biting action lately and I really don’t have the time.”

“You could always delegate the biting stuff to the fieldwork team, sir. I know Rosewarne has some experience with biting toilets, and I was around for the tea cup epidemic of 2002.”

It was, of course, a perfectly practical solution, which did not resolve the real problem which was that Harry had absolutely no desire to be of service to Balter Throttlebottom in any capacity. Throttlebottom was a bully and a bigot, despite what his Order of Merlin might suggest, and Harry had butted heads with him repeatedly over the years in his capacity as Auror. He was particularly enthusiastic about imposing unduly heavy sentences for minor offences, when those offences had been committed by defendants from certain ‘undesirable’ backgrounds. No, it would be infinitely more satisfying to leave his harvest of dicks just where it was, in full view of all Throttlebottom’s friends and neighbours and the world at large. 

“Leave it with me, Devlin,” Harry said, closing the file. Fuck Throttlebottom. Harry couldn’t decline to investigate, but as far as he was concerned this case was not their top priority, no matter Ron had said. “I’ve got something else to handball to you in the meantime – I’ve got a couple of backlogged Extractions that need to be integrated with a Tracker, including this freshly brewed little bastard.” He handed Devlin the toaster phial. “Could you take care of that for me?”

Devlin held the phial up to the light and watched the substance move thickly within. “It’s still warm.” He closed his fingers around the glass and nodded. “Right away, Mr Potter. Are the others...?”

“In the usual spot, yes. Much appreciated.”

Harry waited until Devlin had gathered the samples and left the lab, before allowing himself to take a proper look at the floral arrangement on his workbench. The cocks trembled in concert, quivering ever so slightly in response to vibrations in the air – the sound of Vicky slamming the filing cabinet drawer closed outside in the foyer was faint to his ears, but he could see the bush rustle immediately in response. Harry could only imagine what the rest of the garden looked like, what with the constant rumble of bin trucks and lorries making their way along Throttlebottom’s busy street. It was almost like they were waving to you, inviting you to come over. Harry looked at the closed door briefly, then extended his wand to poke just the very tip against the side of one cock. It bobbed in reply, excitedly. 

The effect was almost hypnotic. It was like watching the gently beckoning tentacles of a sea anemone, each cock around seven inches in length and a translucent purple, which only enhanced the overall impression that this thing was some sort of deep sea-dwelling creature. Harry only realised he had reached out to touch the nearest appendage when he registered the temperature of it under his fingertips: it was warm, which he had not expected. In fact he would estimate it to be about right for human body temperature, and his fingers seemed quite naturally inclined to curl around the shaft of it and gently squeeze. 

There was a loud bang in the offices beside the lab, followed by a chorus of muffled laughter, and Harry nearly fell off his stool in his haste to drop the cock. He could feel his face burning, and he cleared his throat loudly and pushed his glasses as far up on the bridge of his nose as he could without forcing them into his actual eyes. The cock swung wildly on its branch, its brothers bobbing away around it. “That’s so wrong,” Harry said under his breath, eyes darting between the cocks and the door. It wouldn’t do for someone to come in and find him like this, face beet-red and a shrub covered in pricks nodding away at him like an obscene dashboard ornament, regardless of whether they were part of an official investigation. There was a tarpaulin under the bench, and Harry unfolded it quickly and tossed it over the tabletop, covering the dicks and the residue of the formerly fire-breathing toaster in the process. He could hear them batting softly against the tarp. 

“Time for a cup of tea.”

*

There was a very particular set of sensations which always accompanied a visit to the Burrow. There was the ever present smell of something cooking, and a delicious sort of warmth to the air no matter what the weather was outside. The chairs always felt more comfortable there, squashier, softer, like well-worn tracksuit bottoms. And the inevitable feeling that followed eating far too much, a sleepy contentment that made it possible to ignore how tight the waistband of your trousers had become. Ron wasn’t even pretending to put on airs; his shirt was entirely untucked, with a noticeable drip of gravy on the front, and Harry could only thank the hem of it for saving him from the sight of Ron’s now unbuttoned jeans, and pale, distended belly. Nothing could save any of them from Ron’s belching, however, which he was blaming unconvincingly on the local bullfrog population.

Fleur and Angelina had stayed in the kitchen with Molly, where they were all sharing a cup of tea and a sherry apiece, and the remains of a very good trifle. Upstairs, Harry could hear George and Bill wrangling various small children in the bathroom, some of whom belonged to Ron and Hermione, in an attempt to wash custard and jam from sticky fingers. Harry was pretty sure the kids were winning. Arthur was in the sitting room playing a very serious game of Wizard Chess with Victoire. That left the four of them alone in the living room, where Ron was sprawled on an armchair, while Ginny and Hermione sat together on the settee paging through an ancient copy of _Witch Weekly_.

“How’s work, Harry?” Ginny stretched out a leg and poked his shoulder with her foot. “Anything exciting happening in the world of cursed Muggle objects?”

Harry took a swipe at her foot, but she moved away too quickly. “Nothing much. Fire-breathing toasters, biting tea cups and toilet seats. A few weeks ago we confiscated a batch of cosmetics which turned people permanently orange. That almost completely evaded detection over the summer as most of the victims had recently been on hols in Magaluf and looked pretty much orange as it was, between the fake tan and the sunbathing.”

“Why is it always _biting_ tea cups and toilet seats?” Hermione asked almost absently, examining a knitting pattern from the early seventies with interest. “It seems like one or the other will surface every few months.”

“Never mind that – Harry, how are you getting on with Throttlebottom’s cocks?”

That caught the girls’ full attention, and Harry favoured Ron with his most withering look. “You only sent it up this afternoon. I’ve barely read the case file.”

“I’m going to go out on a limb here, and assume this has something to do with the lead article in this morning’s _Prophet_?”

Hermione answered Ginny, thoroughly amused. “The Chief Warlock is up to his eyeballs in rubber willies.”

“Yes, and he’ll have to stay that way for a little while longer while my team works through our existing caseload.”

Ron groaned. “Mate, there is a _lot_ of pressure from above to get this sorted as a top priority. Throttlebottom is already on the warpath with me since I ‘belligerently refused’ to assign the case to Shacklebolt, and haven’t put those C.U.M. clowns in Azkaban yet. Shacklebolt’s actual job as the leader of Wizarding society in Britain is of no concern to him, nor is the fact that C.U.M. have been completely ruled out as suspects.”

Harry felt a great surge of irritation rise within him. This sort of crap was precisely why he had such utter contempt for Throttlebottom. “Well the problem is, Ron, that there are actual dangers to Muggles and magical-kind that we’re trying to resolve, the kind where actual people are at risk of actual bodily harm, and not just a little embarrassment. The system doesn’t operate in a way which allows the person who complains the loudest to receive priority service just so we can make him go away!”

“Normally I’d agree with you mate, but most of the time the person doing the complaining doesn’t have half the clout Throttlebottom does. You have to admit, the biting thing isn’t exactly a matter of national security...you can buy a nose biting teacup from George’s shop!”

“That’s not the point, Ron!”

Ron held his hands up. “I know! But the point shouldn’t be that you’re fobbing the case off because you’ve got a personal problem with the Chief Warlock, either.”

“Okay, boys,” Hermione’s voice was soothing, and she moved from the settee to sit on the arm of Harry’s chair, patting him gently on the shoulder. “I’m calling time on this one before things get out of hand. Harry, you’ve got that look in your eyes.”

“What look?” Harry glared at Ron.

“The one that used to reduce hardened criminals to custard in the interrogation room,” Hermione replied mildly. Ron wisely kept silent. “Let’s change the subject. How’s your love life?”

Harry stared at her. “This is the topic choice that is supposed to make me _less_ annoyed? I’m starting to doubt the whole ‘cleverest witch of our generation’ title.”

“You’re not thinking of Throttlebottom anymore though, are you.” He was forced to admit, he was not. “So. Anyone you fancy at the moment?”

“Harry, if you’re not seeing anyone there’s a certain massage therapist working for a certain Quidditch team which shall for the time being remain nameless, who has dropped a number of not so subtle hints that he is single and interested. I could set you up, just say the word.”

“Or if you’d rather someone non-magical, there’s a new dentist at my father’s surgery who is very fit, and very available. He has excellent teeth, of course.”

Harry shook his head. “I want to go home.”

“With a strapping young massage therapist? He has magic fingers, Harry.” Ginny wiggled hers in his face with glee. “ _Magic_.”

“Or a very respectable dentist with a miniature schnauzer named Travis!”

Harry looked at Ron in appeal. “Help?”

Ron snorted. “Now _you_ want a favour?”

*

Monday morning saw Harry up to his ears in paperwork. There were enough referrals on his desk to build a small house, and the results of a number of recent Trackers needed a final review before they were escalated to the arrest stage. Harry’s head was bent over one such report when he realised there was someone standing in his doorway, silently boring holes into the top of his head with their eyes.

“Minister Shacklebolt – to what do I owe-”

“Is that the Throttlebottom case you’re working on, Potter?” Harry cringed. It was apparent by his tone that Shacklebolt knew very well that it was not, and it was equally as apparent that he was fairly unimpressed by that knowledge. The fact that the Minister for Magic was taking time out to make a personal visit at all was hardly a good omen.

“Erm. Well, sir, I was just tying up some loose-”

Shacklebolt entered the office with what seemed like a single stride, and leaned both hands on Harry’s desk. Harry resisted the urge to lean backward with some difficulty. “Do you have any idea how many times the Chief Warlock has personally visited my office to bother me about this case, Potter?” Harry opened his mouth, but Shacklebolt did not wait for his answer. “The answer is ‘too many’, Potter. I had thought I had impressed upon our Head Auror the urgency with which I would prefer this case to be investigated, and he had assured me that he had communicated this to you. Perhaps I was not sufficiently clear.” Harry swallowed, and Shacklebolt loomed over him. “Sort it out. Reassign whatever you have to, and take care of this personally, and immediately.”

“Yes sir.”

“I’m not joking, Potter. I don’t want to see that man in my office again about this issue.”

“Yes sir.”

Harry watched Shacklebolt’s back until he had left their offices entirely, then blew out a sharp breath, and called for Devlin. Within the hour his desk was clear, with the exception of a single red folder. Harry opened it with resignation, and began to flip through the reports within. According to the documentation, the bushes had continued to sprout new growth even after the originating dildo had been unearthed and removed to Harry’s lab. In fact, so far nothing had worked on them, and the Auror’s had tried almost everything in accordance with Throttlebottom’s requests, including poisoning them, burning them, and ripping them up by the roots. The growth rate was rapid, with an individual cock blossoming within twenty-four hours, and an entire bush regrown within three days. 

There were pages of transcripts from interviews with suspects, all of whom had so far been ruled out. It was apparent that this would come down to lab work, and probably some fairly tedious fieldwork. He would have to make a start on some of the tests right away to give them time to develop, if he wanted to get started on his fieldwork. He definitely didn’t want Shacklebolt to come down and shout at him again.

Taking the file into the lab, he cast a spell to pin the crime scene photographs and the various reports to the cork board at the back of the room. Working quickly, he retrieved two cauldrons, one pewter and the other iron, and set both to heating with a little water in the bottom. Next came the racks of test tubes, and several beakers, and his potions tools, a handsome set of silver knives, tongs and tweezers which Hermione had given him at Christmas, and a tray of glass stirrers. When he could avoid it no longer, Harry grit his teeth and lifted the tarpaulin from atop the cutting Devlin had brought down on Friday, and the cocks rustled gently on their leafy limbs. There really was a quite disturbing sensation that each cock was watching him, each with their single, small eye at the head, and their constant beckoning motion. Pulling on a pair of gloves and frowning down at the nearest dick, he took hold of it, noticing again the warmth of it seeping through the glove, and gave it a sharp tug. It broke free of the branch like a piece of fruit. Harry placed it on a fresh safety mat in front of him, and gave it a few experimental prods before selecting a scalpel from his knife kit. Carefully, he sliced a thin sliver from the shaft, only about a half an inch in length and as thin as an onion skin, and transferred it carefully to one of the many test tubes. 

After a little while, Harry became as absorbed in his work as he usually did, without the thought of the unpleasantness of the client particularly bothering him, and so by the end of the day he had a set of twelve test tubes with samples from the magical dicks floating in a variety of potions and solutions, each designed to reveal particular properties in the magic and material of the specimen. There were four more with samples from the original Muggle dildo, which was all Harry was willing to risk, in case he damaged the thing to the point where he could no longer extract a magical signature from it. At this point, there were no spares, and no reason to believe there were any others out there in the world, just waiting to cause trouble. Three intact knobs had been planted in fresh soil, to see whether they would sprout independently of the original. The remaining branches had been carefully enclosed in a preservation charm, as had Dildo Prime, and there was really little else Harry could do from the office until his tests were complete.

Ron poked his head around Harry’s door at half five. “Pint?”

“In what universe do you think Hermione is going to let you get away with having a pint with me, while she’s stuck at home trying to feed, bathe and put to bed those two banshees you call children?”

Logic only slowed Ron down for a moment. “How about you come to our place, and look after the kids for a few hours while me and Hermione go out for a pint, then?”

Harry laughed. “Nice try. Listen, would you be free tomorrow afternoon for a-”

“Pint?” Ron interrupted hopefully.

“For a briefing on this Throttlebottom business.” 

“I suppose. Did Shacklebolt come down and tell you off?”

Harry extended a single finger. “Nobody likes a know-it-all, Ron.”

*

By the time the briefing with Ron was scheduled, Harry had made far less progress than he had hoped for. The cuttings had not sprouted. The various samples had mainly showed only what Harry supposed they ought: that they were made from polyvinyl chloride and bore the hallmarks of some sort of magical intervention, although what that was specifically was still unclear. The objects themselves had not been manufactured with it – they were definitely Muggle, down to the slight ridges from the original mould along the length of it. The spellwork was very subtle and would need further investigation, which was the most disappointing part for Harry, as he’d be fervently hoping it would turn out to be something obvious and easily identifiable, so he could skip straight on to the tracking.

A bit of investigation of the serial number on his laptop at home had confirmed the original manufacturers were a company based in China, with no known magical affiliation. They exported their goods almost everywhere, but there were no signs of any reports of dick gardens in other countries; in fact, the Throttlebottom case was the only one anywhere, as far as Harry could tell. He had managed to obtain a list of businesses which stocked that particular model of dong, however, and had run the list through the wizarding division of Companies House, to see if any of them happened to be owned by wizards. As it happened, there were three, and one of them was right in Knockturn Alley. 

“What’s the word?” Ron said, peering under the tarp at the remains of the shrub cuttings, and generally poking at things on the bench. “What does it all mean?”

“Well, unfortunately it means I’m still not really anywhere near fixing the problem of the cocks in the Throttlebottom’s garden. I still don’t _really_ know what spells are in use, what they’re for or how to counter them.”

“So, you don’t think the point is just to embarrass the Chief Warlock? Revenge or something, something political?”

Harry shrugged. “Well, it could still be something like that, but it’s not clear yet whether this thing is just intended as a nuisance, or if there’s something more harmful lurking under there. Digging the garden up has done nothing to stop these things growing back, nor has removing the original cursed object,” Harry gestured towards the dildo, lying prone on a tray on the bench between them. “The fact that the cuttings wouldn’t grow here in the lab is perplexing. I had two planted in soil samples from the Throttlebottom’s garden, and one in fresh soil as a control, and it grew in none of the test pots. I even buried the original and nothing happened, which indicates that there is something very specific about that garden or those people that is directly related to the activation of the curse. I’d be very hesitant to use any sort of magic to get rid of them until we know it won’t backfire and cause even more cock-related disasters. Which means Throttlebottom is probably going to pay the Minister another visit soon, which means the Minister is probably going to pay _me_ another visit soon.”

Ron looked sympathetic. “Well, what do you do now? What would you do if this was a fire-breathing toaster?”

Harry shrugged. “I’d make toast. I’d get a toaster as similar to the cursed one as I could find, identical if I could manage it, and I’d make some toast in both toasters and see what happened. Compare them. Observe the behaviour of the cursed toaster, how hot the flames were, and how high, and what exactly was happening magically at the moment the flames burst out of the slots. Are the flames intended to harm the user or just frighten them, or was it a misguided attempt at improving the performance of the toaster? And once I had that figured out, I’d take the thing apart and extract the magical signature, and then I’d use that to track the culprit down.”

Ron picked up a cock with a pair of tongs, and waved it in Harry’s direction. “So – get on with it. Use it for what it’s designed for, and see if that activates the curse.”

Harry looked from Ron, to the cock, and back again several times. “You want me to… interfere with a piece of evidence, one that was recently buried under a quantity of well fertilised soil, and before that had Merlin knows what done to it?”

Ron laughed so hard that the dong fell onto the table with a dull thud. “Maybe not, mate, but Hermione has these anatomical models from her third year Healer training. Maybe she can tell you where she got them.”

“Great,” Harry pushed his glasses up, and rubbed his chin. “Just what I need on my next expense report – one artificial, anatomically correct vagina. Easy to explain.”

“There’s an obvious way around that, isn’t there?” Ron pointed the tongs at Harry. “Just order the artificial arsehole.”

Harry wasn’t quite sure what to say about that suggestion. In fact, he was still thinking about it several hours after Ron left.

*


	2. Chapter 2

_Ocard Enterprises, Limited_. It was a nondescript door, solid wood in glossy black paint, and with no panes of glass or mail slot or any other mark or sigil to indicate what lay beyond, aside from the business name on a subtle brass plaque fixed around eye level. The question now was whether to knock, or just try the door and see if it opened. 

The thing was, really, that Harry couldn’t work out which would be more awkward; being seen entering a Knockturn Alley sex shop, or seeing someone he knew from the Ministry actually inside the sex shop. “Or being caught loitering in the doorway of said sex shop,” Harry muttered under his breath. “Grow a pair, Potter, you used to be an Auror for fuck’s sake.”

A small bell jingled above the door on the way in. Harry was struck immediately by how...well, how little it looked like he expected a sex shop would. It was bright, for a start, a very clean, sterile white sort of lighting, and there was some kind of nondescript music piping softly through the place, the kind you might expect to hear in a suburban Tesco. Actually, the whole effect was very much like a supermarket; a faint scent of bleach, bright white tiled floors and walls, and neat aisles filled with all manner of toys.

There were no other customers in the shop, as far as Harry could tell, anyway. He approached an aisle and lifted the edge of a box which declared it contained a Frolicking Feather. Harry’s eyebrows climbed towards his hairline. “It does _what?_ ”

“Some help, sir?”

Harry felt the blood drain rapidly from his face, only to come roaring back seconds later, with force. Of course Draco Malfoy would be the attendant of the only sex shop he’d ever set foot in. _Of course_ he would. Because Harry had always been lucky like that. 

Harry turned to face Malfoy fully with a small sigh. Malfoy seemed not to register surprise at all to see Harry, as if he’d always known he’d eventually show up. _Probably thinks I’m here to buy something kinky, like troll porn._

“Potter. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Somehow, the word ‘pleasure’ took on all sorts of suggestive meaning when Malfoy said it, which Harry supposed was probably the point. Malfoy always did know how to provoke a reaction from him, generally one he would rather not have been having. Harry cleared his throat, realised he was still holding the box containing the Frolicking Feather, and shoved it hastily back on the shelf in order to fumble his Ministry identification out of a pocket in his robes.

“Official business, Malfoy. Can I ask you a few questions?”

Malfoy had the good grace to at least look visibly surprised this time. “Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office – what official business would bring you to my establishment, Potter?”

Harry gestured at the shop with his ID before tucking it back into his robes. “So this is your business?”

“Well, it is my name on the front door,” Malfoy said mildly. The cogs clicked over in Harry’s mind, and he felt the mild embarrassment rise again, in the form of a creeping flush. Ocard – Draco, backwards. A bit on the nose, but bloody obvious now that Malfoy had pointed it out.

“This is a formal interview, Malfoy, and I’m required to obtain confirmation from you of any pertinent information, regardless of whether I already know or suspect the answer,” Harry fixed Malfoy with his best stern investigator expression, keen to gain the upper hand and keep it this time. “Is there somewhere we can speak privately?”

Malfoy didn’t seem ruffled in the least. If anything, there was an air of amusement about him, as he led Harry down an aisle of whips and handcuffs and to a discreet door at the back of the shop, marked ‘Staff Only’. He held the door open for Harry, and they stepped into a vast space, which, as the door was closed by Malfoy behind them, Harry realised had one entirely transparent wall. 

The outline of the door they had just entered through was still visible – easy to find, despite the fact that it and the wall around it was now a sort of slightly green glass. And more surprising, he could see people – customers, he supposed, lots of them, milling up and down the aisles, mostly singly but some who were clearly couples. He could see a man and woman not far from the rear wall; she was holding what looked like a harness of some kind against her waist as if to test the fit, while her partner compared the length and girth of two rather intimidating dildos. “What...?”

“Pegging, probably,” Malfoy said calmly. “The woman will wear the harness, and the dildo will be strapped into the holster at the front. She’ll use it to penetrate his-”

“Not ‘what’ _that_ ,” Harry spluttered, mortified. “I mean, this wall, and all the customers. When I came in, there was nobody else in the shop.”

Malfoy was almost smiling. “Good charm, that one. Yes, for the comfort and privacy of my customers, there are concealment charms of a sort – something of my own devise. I call it _Penetralia_.”

“Penet-” Harry closed his eyes and tried not to blush any further. He could see the Latin root to the name, but Malfoy was clearly going for maximum titillation. “What does it do, exactly?”

“Well,” Malfoy seemed genuinely pleased to tell him more. “It’s triggered as the customer enters the shop; if they’re alone, they see no one else until an attendant approaches them, but if they’ve come with a companion, then they can still see that person – or, persons, as the case may be. But they can’t see any other customer. The staff-” Malfoy raised a tapered finger to point out several moving figures who were neatly dressed in sensible black robes with ‘Ocard’ embroidered in simple white stitching across the chest. “They can see everyone, and each other, but can only be seen by the customer they’re serving at any given time – otherwise you’d have the unnerving experience of seeing attendants all over the place speaking to thin air, and that’s not very conducive to shopping for a ball gag, is it.” Thankfully, that seemed to be a rhetorical question, as Harry really wouldn’t know a thing about the proper etiquette for shopping for a ball gag, nor any other kind of adult product. Considering the number of people in the shop, he was starting to think perhaps he might be the only wizard in London who hadn’t.

“Everyone is visible from the office,” Malfoy was saying. “The glass is integrated with the charm, which allows it to look like a regular wall on one side, and reveals all those present in the shop, on the other. That’s how I keep an eye on things, and see if I need to send anyone onto the shop floor if it’s getting busy. I’m not normally out there, you see,” Malfoy said conversationally, as he watched a rather large wizard pay for a length of velvet rope and a blindfold. “But it’s been a bit relentless today, and all my people are already on the floor. I don’t like to keep the customers waiting. They mostly know what they want, and would prefer to be in and out quickly, as it were.”

Harry stepped closer to the wall and gave it an experimental poke with one finger. It felt smooth like glass, but slightly warm, and a small ripple spread from the point of contact and wobbled outwards until it faded. “Where did you find this stuff?” Harry didn’t bother to disguise his curiosity. “I’ve never even heard of it before.”

“It’s bespoke. I made it, the charm and the glass,” Malfoy said, still watching his customers. Harry stared at him, until Malfoy noticed, and turned his attention back to Harry. “You seem surprised. Always underestimating my talents, Potter, which I should warn you are considerable, and,” Malfoy’s eyes dropped briefly to Harry’s mouth, and Harry felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. “And quite diverse. It’s basically a modified Foe Glass, but instead of showing me my enemies, it shows me my customers. Quite a tricky bit of magic, that; I had to dismantle one to work it out, and they’re very expensive. I went through five before I had it worked out. The spellwork on how to create them isn’t especially easy to lay one's hands on, either. But I do like a challenge.”

Harry had so many questions he wanted to ask about Malfoy’s bespoke spells, but most of all, he was seriously impressed. Not that it would do to tell Malfoy so.

“Right – well. My investigation.” Harry cleared his throat and retrieved his notepad and a self-inking quill from the inner pocket of his robe. Malfoy gestured towards a small, glass walled office in the corner of what Harry could now see was a large warehouse. Crate after crate was stacked on neat shelves, with helpful signs such as ‘Dildos – glass (3-6 inches)’ and ‘Nipple clamps’. Harry felt sweaty and flustered, and wasted no time striding into the small room and taking a seat on the opposite side of what was clearly Malfoy’s desk. 

Malfoy followed him in and closed the door, before taking his place behind the desk. It was a modest office, not what Harry would have expected from the proprietor of a sex shop, nor from Malfoy - not that he’d spent any time thinking of what either would be like before just now. It’s only, he’d expected a sex shop to be dark and seedy, and probably rather sticky, and this was very clean and modern, with a glass-topped desk that held several wire trays holding scrolls and parchments, and what looked like catalogues, all in neat stacks, and a large ledger, and a glass jar full of quills. There were no lurid images tacked to the walls; he hadn’t seen a single poster of anyone’s vulva or anus, only several certificates in plain frames which looked to be registration of the business with the Ministry, and licenses to operate as an adult retailer. And he’d always sort of figured that Malfoy would be into heavy antiques and such, fussy, gilt monstrosities, but this was all very Scandinavian in its simplicity. It didn’t even smell funny.

“What do you need the food handling license for?” Harry asked without meaning to.

“Edible underpants,” said Malfoy smoothly. “Chocolate body paint. There’s a mould you can use to make jelly sweets in the shape of your own-”

“Yes, thank you – got it.” _Why_ had he asked? Harry’s embarrassment felt like it might become terminal. He cleared his throat and drew his eyebrows into what he hoped was a serious furrow. “Malfoy, are you aware of the current situation regarding the Chief Warlock’s garden?”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, and sat forward in his seat. “ _Yes_ \- bush full of cocks, isn’t it?”

Harry bit the inside of his lip. “Yes. The cause seems to be, er, a cursed dildo.” He pursed his lips, and poised his quill. “The original dildo was Muggle in origin and is only stocked in a limited number of establishments in England, including yours.”

Malfoy looked offended. “Are you suggesting I cursed this dildo?”

“No, actually,” Harry said, a bit surprised. “Sorry – I’m just looking for some assistance in tracking down who purchased it. I assume you keep records of sales?”

Mollified, Malfoy drew a blank sheet of parchment from the tray on his desk and picked up a quill. “Specifications?”

“Er,” Harry flipped back through his notepad until he found the page. “Seven inches long, lilac coloured, made of polyvinyl chloride. I have a serial number, if that helps?” Malfoy jotted each specification down on the parchment, including the serial number, and then wrote ‘sale’ at the bottom of the list. He drew his wand from his robes and tapped it gently on the page. The words seemed to melt into the paper, and nothing else happened for a moment – but then words reformed on the page: _no results found_.

Malfoy hummed slightly to himself, and waved his wand to clear away the page. Picking up the quill again, he scrawled ‘inventory’ and then listed the specifications again, less the serial number. A list of three items appeared on the parchment, and Malfoy turned it toward Harry, who leaned forward and pushed his glasses up on his nose.

_Annie’s First Anal – lifelike, slimline, assorted colours, 7”, flared base *in stock*_   
_King Dong – stylised, assorted colours, available in 6”-13”, suction cup base *in stock*_   
_Sensual Lover, 3rd Edition – lifelike, purple or teal, size 1 (4”) to 9 (12”), flared base *out of stock*_

“It looks like we don’t currently stock the Sensual Lover,” Malfoy said. “I’m sure it’ll be the Sensual Lover, rather than the King Dong. From what I could see from the _Prophet_ the Chief Warlock’s cocks were of the lifelike style, and the King Dong barely looks like a cock at all.” He tapped the list and a large, full colour image of a purple, translucent dick expanded on the page. Harry cleared his throat and nodded in agreement. The image of the Sensual Lover dildo was a precise match for the shrub full of dicks in Harry’s lab. “Well, it wasn’t me who sold your dildo, but I can put in a discreet call to the others if you like – who else is on your list of stockists?”

Harry hadn’t quite found his voice, and so he tore the page with those names from his notepad and pushed it over to Malfoy. He picked it up and hummed again, then retrieved a Muggle mobile phone from the inner pocket of his robe. 

“Hello, Aggie? It’s Draco. Alright, darling? Listen, do you have the Sensual Lover in stock at the mo? You know the one, Muggle brand, about a four inch circumference, comes in purple? Yes, that’s the very one. Oh you only stock the teal?” Malfoy looked at Harry, who jotted this down. “No my customer is really mad about the purple, won’t take anything else. Have you recently sold out, or...oh right, I hear you. Well thank you anyway darling, I’m sorry I can’t chat. Shop is absolutely teeming today...oh...” Malfoy suddenly let out a bark of laughter. “Yes, you’re probably right. I’ll let you get back to it. My love to Gez and the kids. Bye.” Malfoy rang off and shrugged. “Well, that’s one off your list. She hasn’t stocked the purple at all, only the teal. Seems those were going cheap from the wholesaler at the time.”

Harry nodded. It was quite surreal, sitting here with Malfoy, who he hadn’t spoken to in – well, probably years, with a room filled with sex toys just behind them, calmly talking about rubber cocks. “Thanks, that’s really helpful. I guess I’ll go and visit the other lot at,” Harry looked over at the scrap of paper again. “ _The Cum Den_ \- oh.” He was sure his blush hadn’t faded, yet it felt like it burned afresh and Harry really started to feel a bit annoyed with himself. He was no _prude_ , or virgin, and Malfoy was being perfectly professional (to his great surprise), and this was a _case_ , so Harry should be able to do the same. Malfoy hadn’t noticed, as he was tapping the next phone number into his mobile.

“Don’t bother going there Potter, not until we’ve checked. The Cum Den is revolting, it’s a real- Lester! How are you, old man? Oh, well enough, you know how it is. Look I wouldn’t bother you, but I’ve just had a customer drop in trying to return a Sensual Lover dildo, and I didn’t sell one so I thought maybe it might have been one of yours? Yeah, I have the serial number actually, would you mind?” 

There was a short pause, and then Malfoy gave Harry the thumbs up with one hand, while picking up his quill in the other. “You did? Mail order, you say? What was the customer name?” Malfoy scratched the details out on the back of the list of suppliers. “Hmmm, doesn’t seem to be the same name as the person who came in to see me. Well, look maybe they got it as a gift, I’ll see what happens when I speak to them again...what’s that? Oh, why was it being returned?” He looked at Harry, and casually dropped his gaze again to Harry’s mouth, and over his chest, and down to his thighs. “The guy said it wasn’t stiff enough.” He gave Harry a slightly wicked smile, and Harry’s heart thudded suddenly. “Right-o, well thanks Les, I’ll send the fellow in your direction and you can argue the refund policy with him if he shows up. All the best – bye.”

Malfoy pushed the scrap of paper back to Harry. “There’s a good chance this is a false name, although to be fair, it can be a bit difficult to tell with Wizards.”

“Fanny Ballhatchet? At a postbox in Cockfosters.” Harry rolled his eyes. “I suspect you’re probably right.” He folded up the list and tucked it back into his notebook, closing the cover and slotting it and his quill back into his robes. “Look – thanks Malfoy. This has actually been a great help to the investigation.”

Malfoy remained utterly composed, as he had for the duration of their somewhat bizarre meeting. “It’s my pleasure, Potter. I’m always happy to help the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.” He smiled slightly at Harry. “Be sure to let me know if I can be of any further service.”

Harry felt inexplicably warm at that, and stood, clearing his throat. Malfoy stood as well, and gestured for Harry to follow him back out through the warehouse, and to the front door of the shop. It was strange to pass through the warehouse doorway again, for the dozens of figures milling about the shop aisles to suddenly disappear, for the wall to become solid again, and to walk silently down a row stocked with a dizzying array of personal lubricants while following Malfoy’s confident strides. When they reached the front door, Harry hesitated for a moment, then struck out a hand. “Er, well, thanks again Malfoy.”

Malfoy took his hand without saying anything, but he had an unreadable expression on his face which only made Harry feel more flustered. Malfoy squeezed his hand once, and let it go. “Potter,” Malfoy reached into his robes and withdrew a small rectangle of stiff paper. “Take my card. In case anything else comes up.” Harry couldn’t help the rise of any number of innuendo-laden comments in his throat, so he said nothing and instead took the card with a firm nod and as little direct eye contact as he could manage. This whole encounter had him feeling quite off kilter and frankly strange. The bell jingled as he opened the door, and then he was on the stoop again and out on the cobbles of Knockturn, and Harry strode away with the sensation of Malfoy’s stare prickling at his back.

*

Harry’s briefing with Ron, Shacklebolt and Throttlebottom had been difficult to say the least – it was now Thursday, almost a full week since the cocks first appeared, and Harry was no closer to a solution. Following his visit to Malfoy’s shop on Wednesday mid-morning, Harry had sent away the details of the postbox to see who it was registered to. He wasn’t expecting an answer until at least Friday, and in the meantime wasted the rest of the afternoon searching through Ministry census records to see if there was any mention of a Fanny Ballhatchet in Cockfosters, or anywhere else in Wizarding Britain in the last hundred years. As expected, there was none.

Shacklebolt was not pleased that the case was still open, and the cock-bush still flowering, but at least he seemed satisfied that Harry was doing his utmost to get to the root of the problem, so to speak. Throttlebottom was apoplectic. The dicks had now flourished and multiplied to the point that it was no longer possible to reach the front door of his cottage without liberal use of a slashing hex, and the _Prophet_ had a rotating staff of photographers on twenty-four hour duty, aiming for a snap of Throttlebottom wrestling with a fistful of dongs. He’d made the sensible decision to relocate to an Auror safe house with his wife to get away from the cocks, and the press. Ron wisely kept his mouth shut about it all and didn’t meet Harry’s eyes once during the meeting. Git. 

Harry sighed at the cork board in his lab, now covered in parchment and notes. He was stuck, really, waiting for news on Fanny Ballhatchet of Cockfosters, and honestly he’d exhausted all of his ideas. 

Except...well.

Harry could feel the tips of his ears getting hot, and he scowled at the board. Honestly, the constant embarrassment was making him quite cross. He was _not_ a prude. He was just, well, comparatively inexperienced. He really hadn’t had the opportunity to fiddle about with his bits or anybody else’s, not during school, anyway, unless you counted Ginny. Which absolutely did count, and she’d been very good about working through his sexual identity crisis, and was not at all judgey when he’d asked for a finger in the bum while she was sucking him off. And they’d had very nice sex together, actually, very nice sex indeed, not that it had stopped the inevitable break up. Harry glared at the results of yet another inconclusive test on the dongs. It was probably a good thing that this whole dildo crisis had come about, actually. Not for Throttlebottom, obviously, but maybe for Harry. He needed to get past this shyness and hesitance about sex, and having it with someone other than just himself, alone. Had he seriously been single for _ten years?_ He knew he had, but it also seemed sort of unbelievable. No wonder Hermione had been so worried about his wellbeing. He was practically a fucking hermit.

Harry turned abruptly on his heel, scowl deepening, and strode with purpose to his satchel which hung from a hook near the door. He fished around until he laid his hands on his mobile, and again until he came up with Draco Malfoy’s business card. He tapped in the number and tried not to wheeze as he waited for Malfoy to pick up.

“Draco Malfoy, how may I help?”

Harry cleared his throat. “Malfoy. Potter here. From the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts office.”

Malfoy’s voice was, as ever, a confident drawl. “Oh _that_ Potter. Thank goodness you specified.”

 _Merlin’s arse._ Harry drew in a fortifying breath. "Listen, Malfoy. In relation to my investigation. I’m at the point where I need to do some practical tests with the specimens. I need to test the cursed objects during their usual function." 

There was a pause. "Potter, are you calling to tell me you plan on using this thing, on yourself? Because that sounds neither safe, nor like it’s any of my business-"

"No!" Harry shouted, dying of humiliation. "God, of course not, Malfoy. Merlin's _arse_. I'm calling for your help in getting some, erm, artificial assistance. I'm not sure quite what to ask for...something anatomically correct," Harry cleared his throat and used the sleeve of his robes to wipe the quickly rising beads of sweat from his upper lip. "I was wondering if that was something you might have at your shop."

Malfoy seemed to know exactly what Harry couldn’t quite work out how to say. “Indeed. I have the very thing. Are you free this afternoon?”

“Free?” 

"I imagine you'll be needing this quickly and discreetly, Potter, and probably not flying through the halls of the Ministry by owl.” That was a very good point, actually. “I can-" Malfoy hummed slightly. "I can be at your office at a quarter to five this afternoon, if that suits?"

Hand delivered, then. Harry nodded, realised that was daft as Malfoy couldn’t bloody well _see_ him nodding over the _phone_ , and said loudly, "I - erm, yes, thanks. Good. Please bring an invoice, I'll pay you right away - galleons are fine? A promissory note will take longer to arrange..."

Malfoy confirmed that galleons were indeed fine, and Harry wondered again how it was going to look submitting an invoice for anatomically correct rubber genitals in his next petty cash claim. 

He rang off somewhat awkwardly, and Harry tried to concentrate on the remainder of the spell dissection which was presently the only thing he _could_ go on with, until he had the necessary equipment to do - well. 

Malfoy was a good two hours away, but Harry's mind kept turning back to his imminent arrival, and the item he would be bringing with him, and what he'd then have to _do_ with said item. He felt flustered and continued to sweat in a very annoying way that caused his wand to slip around in his fist, and his hair to form damp spikes which poked him sharply in the eyes. Would Malfoy hang around to watch? He would probably need Malfoy’s help if there were special instructions for operating - it. Or maybe you just stuck it in. Could it be that simple? Harry recalled that it probably hadn't been quite that simple when real people’s privates were concerned, but this was just a lab test and there should be no need to perform any fancy moves...right? But what if Malfoy judged him for his _lack_ of fancy moves? And assumed Harry was just crap in bed. Not that he cared what _Malfoy_ thought about anything, only they’d always had a sort of rivalry, hadn't they, always trying to get one up on the other. One _up_. One up the... would he need _lube_? He should have asked Malfoy to bring some lube. He seemed to recall lube had been important, and Harry cursed himself silently for not having sorted his sex life out well before now.

Harry sighed loudly and swore for several minutes without pause, and stuffed his wand into his pocket with nearly enough force to tear a hole in his robes.

"Vicky!" Harry said grumpily, stomping out of the lab and slamming the door shut behind him. He very nearly threw the dissection report across the tiny foyer and out into the Level Two corridor, but managed to hold onto the rapidly scrunching parchment with the last of his forbearance. "I need some time to think about this case. Can you please hold my owls for the rest of the afternoon, and I don't want to be disturbed unless it's the Minister." He paused at his office door. "Actually, I have an appointment at a quarter to five, so please let me know when he's arrived. But other than that, I'm bloody offline!"

"Cup of tea?" Vicky said calmly.

“Please,” Harry said, and after a moment, “Sorry for being so arsey.” Vicky politely said nothing, and left to fetch the tea. 

Harry huffed into his office and dropped onto the lumpy divan which was jammed into one corner. The chair made a warning creak, and Harry stuck his feet up on one arm and leaned his head on the other, and said a little prayer in the hope that today would not be the day that the aged couch collapsed under his weight. 

After a moment, he lifted a hand to Summon the pack of chocolate Hobnobs he kept in his desk drawer, for emergencies, and had stuffed one into his mouth whole by the time Vicky was back with his cuppa. 

“You’ve always been my favourite,” Harry sprayed the words around a shower of crumbs, “Don’t tell Devlin, he’ll be horribly jealous.” Vicky closed the door quietly behind herself on the way out. Harry thought he ought to bring her something nice tomorrow. Vicky put up with rather a lot.

A few hot sips of Darjeeling seemed to fortify him, and Harry let the packet of biscuits sit on his chest as he ate them steadily, one at a time, crumbs multiplying at a brisk pace. He needed to calm the ever-loving fuck down, and clear his mind enough to think about the analysis. 

Harry closed his eyes and visualised his spell analysis report, which in his mind’s eye was obscured by layer upon layer of translucent, aggressively wobbling dongs. He took a deep breath through his nose, inhaling the comforting scent of the tea, now balanced atop a stack of reference texts beside the divan; he tasted the chocolate from the biscuits on his tongue; slowly, firmly, he blew out his breath and imagined himself holding a broom, which he used to sweep away the piles and piles of cocks, until he could see the report clearly once again.

_Breathe in. Breathe out._

Better.

The spell analysis had come up with some unusual results. Despite the now heavy creasing inflicted on the parchment by his frustrated hands, he could still read the report. Harry groped absently along the carpet just under the divan, where he was sure he’d dropped a quill last week. The dissection seemed to be recognising at least some aspects of the Gemino curse, but the spell pattern wasn’t consistent with the proper form, and there was something else that was defying identification, all tangled amongst it. It made some sense – Harry had seen for himself how that particular curse could cause unstoppable replication of a cursed object, but aside from the fact that this was, indeed, an uncontrollable replication, the rest of the behaviour didn’t fit. The cocks didn’t double in response to touch; they’d grown as a bush after the original had been buried, for reasons so far unknown, and they subsequently seemed to respond only to attempts to be stopped. How did the rose bushes become part of the issue? Who the shitting hell cast this godforsaken curse anyway, and for what purpose?

Harry sat up properly and Conjured himself a Muggle whiteboard and erasable pens. Waving his wand over the report, he copied the spell diagram and transposed it onto the whiteboard, and began to scrawl and mutter to himself. “Gemino curse, incantation _Geminio_. From the Latin _geminus_.” 

There was a knock at the door some time later, and Harry was surprised to see the time was nearly five o’clock. “Come in,” he called, poked one of the pens into a snarl of hair above his ear and grabbing his cup, grimaced and swallowed a bitter mouthful of now cold tea. Malfoy stepped into the office, silent but looking around with undisguised interest. He held a small paper carry bag.

“Malfoy, thanks for coming,” Harry gestured for Malfoy to come over to the whiteboard. “I was really impressed with your custom charm work yesterday. I was wondering if you’d give me your opinion on this.” Malfoy stepped closer to the whiteboard, which was now covered from corner to corner in Harry’s cramped notes. 

Malfoy made a humming sound. “Strange.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “It’s a spontaneous occurrence of a multiplying dick tree, Malfoy. We’ve well and truly passed strange some time ago.”

Malfoy seemed to find that amusing. “I agree with your analysis that this is spell comes from the _geminus_ root, and it’s almost certainly _duplicandus_. I see quite a bit of that in my line of work, as you can imagine - it both enlarges and lengthens, if you hadn’t worked that out already.” Harry felt his cheeks burn. Yes, he had worked that out. “You can clearly see that it was cast deliberately. I’d say the _duplicandus_ was corrupted by the _geminio_.” 

“Exactly,” Harry said, pushing all ten fingers into his hair and dislodging several erasable pens in the process. “So you agree that this looks like an accidental hexing - or rather, someone also deliberately cast the Gemino for some reason, but didn't know about the _duplicandus_.”

“And didn’t realise the two spells would conflict due to their common ancestor. They’re too closely related, it confuses the magic.”

“Exactly,” Harry said again. “What do you make of this, though? I have some thoughts, but I’d like a second opinion, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Malfoy leaned closer to the board, peering at Harry’s notes. He smelled like...well, something _good_ , Harry couldn’t really say what, exactly, but it made him feel slightly giddy. “That’s the strange part, it looks really familiar,” Malfoy murmured, and Harry started to feel hot again. “I’ve definitely seen this before but I can’t quite place it.” Malfoy’s hair was clipped short at the nape of his neck, but was sort of long at the top, and he wore it flicked off to the right in a kind of deliberately tousled sweep. Harry had spent a lot of time staring at Malfoy during school, but rarely this close. His hair was still the silvery blond that Harry remembered, and his eyebrows were very dark, and thick, as were his lashes. It made Harry wonder what the rest of Malfoy’s hair would be like - his eyes dropped to Malfoy’s hands, one of which he’d raised to his lips and now rubbed his fingers absently against. Harry swallowed. Malfoy had the faintest of fine silver hair on the backs of this hands-

“Potter. _Potter_.”

“Hmm?” Harry realised Malfoy was staring at him, his lips quirked. Harry coughed. “Oh, yes, totally agree, Malfoy.” Harry hadn't the faintest idea what Malfoy had said in the past few minutes, but he wasn't about to ask him to repeat it.

Malfoy lifted the paper carry bag. “Well, Potter. Shall I get you set up?”

Harry barely looked at Malfoy as he led him out into the reception area, and toward the lab. Mercifully, Vicky and the rest of the team had headed home for the day - while Malfoy’s brown paper bag was small and discreet, and unlikely to rouse any suspicion about its contents, Harry felt that his own behaviour must be signalling to all and sundry that something lewd was afoot. His heart was pounding, and Subconscious Hermione was tutting at him, silently, but judgmentally.

“So this is where the magic happens,” Harry said with a nervous laugh, and gestured for Malfoy to go in ahead of him. Not so that Harry could look at his backside, or anything. “Um, lab coat if you wouldn't mind.” Harry handed Malfoy the spare coat which he kept on a hook near the door, and Malfoy obediently shrugged into it, and then turned to the bench. 

The cock bush rested on the bench, pricks bobbing ever so gently like a huge, phallic sea anemone. Malfoy let out a low whistle, and approached the bench with curiosity. “So this is the beast itself,” Malfoy looked over his shoulder at Harry, and grinned. “I can see why Throttlebottom would be a bit put out.”

Harry’s mouth twisted wryly. “Yeah, apparently a front garden full of rubber dicks isn't everyone's idea of a good time.”

Malfoy hummed in agreement, and reached out to touch one of the cocks without hesitation. “Oh! It’s - I wasn't expecting it to feel so warm.”

Harry stepped up to the bench and stood beside Malfoy, his professional curiosity almost overriding his embarrassment. “Right, so that’s not how one would normally feel?”

Malfoy looked at Harry with amusement. “Only if the ‘one’ was attached to a person, Potter. Otherwise they don’t have their own heat source, although they will warm up on contact with the body.”

Harry rubbed one hand over the back of his neck, cheeks flaming. “Ah, right. I don’t really know much about sex toys. Not really my thing, I suppose.” 

Malfoy hadn’t stopped looking at him with that half smirk. “Never tried one, or did and didn't like it?”

“Uh. Never tried.”

“Well,” Malfoy cocked his head and let his eyes drop briefly down Harry’s torso, and back to his eyes again. “How can you _really_ be sure it’s not your thing if you haven’t tried?”

Oh good grief, Harry was sweating. “Erm.” Malfoy looked away for a moment and thrust his hand into the brown paper carry bag, and the very next moment, slapped an enormous blue-green dildo onto the bench in front of Harry.

“This is the King Dong,” Malfoy said, ever so calmly, while Harry’s eyebrows made a break for his hairline. “Go ahead and touch it.” Harry looked at Malfoy, alarmed, and Malfoy gave him another of those slow smiles. “Feel the difference in temperature.”

Reaching out hesitantly for the dong, Harry had the wild thought that he should have locked and warded the office door _and_ the lab, because he wasn't sure quite how he could adequately explain to an unexpected visitor that this was not what it looked like. And what it looked like, Harry imagined, was one extremely composed blond wizard radiating pure sex, and one damp and red-faced idiot with a raging erection and a handful of the most frightening rubber dildo known to man.

“Huh,” Harry said, surprised despite himself. The dong really was a very different temperature, not cold as such, but definitely not the human-warm of the cock bush. He lifted the King Dong closer to his face for a better look, while simultaneously reaching towards the lab door. Malfoy turned at the noise, and Harry’s Conjured whiteboard lumbered in and set itself down nearby the bench. With the dong still in his left hand, Harry tapped his fingertips against the spell analysis chart, and slid the undulating blue line representing Gemino out of the grid and onto its own segment. “Okay, so that’s the _geminio_ , right? And that-” Harry repeated the process with a purplish wave, positioning it on a new row right below the blue. “-that’s the _duplicandus_. But there’s still some other stuff happening in there, right? What if _this_ -” Now he pinched his fingertips gently and prised a jagged red thread away from the rest. “That looks a lot like a Warming charm to me.”

Malfoy stood beside him, nodding. “Agreed. It’s consistent with the wand movements for the most common spell for these kinds of sex toys - the Muggle sort, I mean. Some customers get off on the novelty of it, the Muggle element is part of their kink. But most want enhancements that are built in with wizarding toys. There’s a standard kit of charms that most vendors will throw in with the purchase of a Muggle toy, for a few extra sickles.” Malfoy’s shoulder was almost touching Harry’s. “That right there, the slightly furry looking bit?” Malfoy ran a fingertip over a grey filament. “I’d wager that’s a Concealment charm of some type. Again, common in the adult market, for obvious reasons. Not everyone is open with their partner about their desires.”

The dildo was half forgotten in Harry’s grip, until he thrust it at the whiteboard with an unsettling thwack. “Oh, erm - sorry. But yes, I think you’re right.” Harry moved the grey thread too. “So that leaves us with what looks like two other spells. I can’t say I’ve ever seen that one before,” Harry pointed to a thorny looking green strand. 

Malfoy frowned. “I feel like I know this one as well, but-” Harry realised he was staring at Malfoy’s neck again, and gripping the dildo with enough force to cause the cock to bulge out either side of his fist. Malfoy shrugged, and quirked his lips in another half-smile at Harry. “I’m sure it’ll come to me. No doubt in the middle of the night.” His smile widened slightly, and Malfoy’s eyes swept quickly up and down the length of Harry once again. It was doing weird things to Harry’s insides. “I’ll call the moment it does.”

Okay, but was Malfoy _flirting_ with him? Even with as little experience and apparently as little emotional intelligence as Harry had, it really seemed like Malfoy was maybe _flirting_ with him. Somewhere in his rational brain, Harry was starting to process the things that had been going on with him, going on since he’d walked into Malfoy’s sex shop yesterday. He definitely found Malfoy attractive, and there was no use trying to bury that away - his body was simply not cooperating with the plan. He had been alternating with hot flushes and goosebumps, he was virtually having _palpitations_ for Circe’s sake. He’d also been just a little bit hard since Malfoy had picked up his call earlier in the day, and that hadn’t flagged at all; if anything, he was oscillating between fully erect and half-mast. He’d been completely distracted and had only managed to regain some focus on his work by meditation, which had never happened to him before. And Malfoy...well, Harry could see Malfoy perhaps being a little saucy with his customers to help along a sale, or even just getting a rise out of provoking Harry, considering their history at school. But it still sort of felt like Malfoy might be flirting a little. On purpose. 

“Shall I get you going, Potter?”

Harry blinked, and Malfoy gestured to the bench, and the brown paper bag. He didn't trust himself to speak, so Harry nodded and turned back to the table, pretending his face wasn’t flaming and his mouth wasn’t dry. Malfoy thrust both hands deep into the bag - undetectable extension charm, Harry noted absently - and lifted out what was unmistakably a rubber female. Not a whole woman, but certainly a bit of thigh, and a lot of vagina. Harry abruptly dropped the King Dong, and it landed heavily between his feet.

“May I introduce Amy,” Malfoy said. “Amy is easily the most anatomically accurate product on the market, and highly popular. A Muggle line, but like the King Dong you can obtain some optional upgrades; temperature, lubricant. There’s a charm to mimic the sensation of the vaginal walls clenching in climax.”

Harry rubbed a hand across his face, shoving his glasses up onto his forehead. “Circe’s tits, Malfoy.”

“More like her cunt,” Malfoy said mildly, and Harry almost choked. “But I get your meaning. Amy, as you can see, is in the ‘doggy’ position and is quite stable when placed on a flat surface, like a table or bench.” Malfoy slapped a hand firmly onto one cheek, which jiggled slightly, then shoved it a little; the toy didn’t move, but the cock bush nodded alarmingly as if in approval. “She can take quite a bit of thrusting without any slippage - at least, not the kind you wouldn’t want in the heat of the moment. Both the anus and the vagina are fully functional and textured internally for realism. Even the skin is quite lifelike,” Malfoy’s hand stroked, feather-light, over the buttock and barely fluttered over the crease, and Harry wondered suddenly if it was possible for one’s spectacles to fog up from the heat of a blush alone.

Harry stared at the toy. Where to start? 

“Well, call me old fashioned but I’d suggest by taking your dildo sample and inserting it firmly into the crevice of your choice. But you’re the lab rat, Potter.”

Harry realised he’d said that last bit out loud, and cleared his throat. “Yes, Malfoy, but there are other variables to consider. Do we start with the vagina or anus, do we use lube, do we test the original dildo only or also some from the bushes, do we use the King Dong as a control - it’s not just a matter of sticking it in and thrusting it around.”

Malfoy almost looked convinced, and reached in once again to the brown paper bag. “Lube - nothing fancy.” He placed a tube on the workbench. “And this is Roger.” The next item was an enormous thing, and took both of Malfoy’s capable hands to bring it out of the bag and onto the bench. It was the size of an actual person, up to the waist, made from some sort of rubber, and was shaped like a kneeling man with an impressive cock rising up between the thighs. “Roger can be straddled and ridden, but can also be tipped over and penetrated - the anus is ridged inside, and even the balls swing realistically in response to being fucked. He’s disgustingly expensive, so we don’t sell very many - but those who indulge are always extremely satisfied.”

“Fucking hell.”

“Quite,” Malfoy said, rather smugly. “Now, get out your gloves, Potter, and lets get our friends nice and lubed up.”

Merlin’s tits.

“Malfoy,” Harry said, only slightly hoarsely, as he busied himself taking a set of latex gloves out of a drawer. “You don’t need to stay. It was good of you to make the delivery, but I’d hate to keep you from your plans.”

“I haven’t any plans,” Malfoy said, casually flicking the cap off the tube. “Frankly, this is the most interesting thing to happen to me all week. Are there any rules against having an observer in the lab?”

How could that be possible when Malfoy worked in a _sex shop_? Surely ten interesting things happened there before morning tea. Harry snapped on one glove. “Well...no.”

“And do you have any objections to me being here?”

 _Other than my persistent blush, and my more persistent erection?_ “Erm. Well, _no_...”

“Marvellous,” Malfoy said, and beckoned his fingers. “Hand me a pair of those gloves, then, and let's crack on.”

There wasn’t much more to do, other than to pass Malfoy some gloves, and try to stop sweating by sheer force of will. “Right. So - erm. We just…”

“Right-handed, Potter?” Malfoy snapped on the gloves smoothly. “I’ll need your forefinger and middle finger.” Harry obediently held out his hand, and Malfoy took it in one of his, and squeezed a liberal quantity of lube onto his fingers. “Now - keep those fingers together, and firmly press them into the hole. Two or three pumps should do it.” Pushing his glasses up with his left hand, Harry determinedly positioned his fingers at Amy’s opening and slipped them in.

It was truly surreal, to be standing in his laboratory with this fingers knuckle-deep in a synthetic pussy, gently fucking it, with Draco Malfoy standing close beside him making small sounds of encouragement. The lube slurped obscenely, loud in the quiet of the lab. Malfoy picked up the King Dong, and coated his hand in lube before he began to palm it in quick, efficient strokes. Harry hardly knew where to look; he could almost _feel_ each lash of Malfoy’s fist on his own cock, and he cursed himself again for not having taken care of his sex life some time ago.

“You’re very good at this,” Harry blurted, snapping his mouth shut again instantly. Malfoy’s eyebrows shot up, and he paused momentarily, looking at Harry with amusement. “I didn’t mean - I mean, lab work. Spell analysis.”

Malfoy’s mouth was still twitching slightly. “High praise. I always liked Charms at school, and Potions. I actually have a lab of my own, for work. I always prefer to test out any Muggle products before I stock them, for safety and such. You’d be surprised at the sorts of things that could go wrong when wizarding folk start messing about with Muggle gear - or, maybe you wouldn’t, given all this.” Malfoy waved his hand in the general direction of the cock bush. “I normally get a sample of anything new on the market and then hit them with all the usual charms people might like to use on their sex toys. Cleaning charms can really deteriorate the materials in rubber items, for example, but silicon holds up rather a lot better. So if you were to come into my shop looking for, say, an anal toy.”

Harry swallowed, hard.

“I would ask you all the usual questions, such as whether you’d used them before, what size you might like, what shape. But I’d also ask you if you were prepared to clean your toy manually, and if you said you only wanted to do so by magical means, then I wouldn’t recommend anything in the jelly range, but rather glass, acrylic, or silicone.” Malfoy held up the dong, and waved it towards Amy. “Fingers out, Potter. She’s more than ready. How are you going to record this - I presume you have a spell?”

“Spell. Yes.” Harry withdrew his fingers with a slick noise, and fumbled for his wand. 

“Shall I do the honours, and you can focus on the readings?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, clearing his throat. “Yes, that would be very helpful, thanks Malfoy.” He waved his wand in a sharp motion, and both the King Dong and Amy glowed faintly purple. “When you’re ready.”

Malfoy pressed the enormous tip of the dildo against the shiny, wet opening of the faux slit, and pushed steadily in. Harry had to look away, it was all a bit much. He Summoned a clipboard from one of the other benches, and tapped his wand against the first page of blank parchment clipped in, and frowned down at the information which began to efficiently transcribe onto the paper. He didn't absorb a word of it, but took a few moments to steady his breathing. He really was being completely ridiculous. He was thirty-two. He was head of his department, for fuck’s sake. Malfoy was unmistakably fit, but that was nothing new - Harry’d been well aware of that for many years. Malfoy was in the gossip pages of the _Prophet_ all the time, and Harry had long ago come to terms with the various repressed infatuations of his school days, of which Malfoy was certainly one. He just needed to break this inadvisably long sexual drought, and quickly, and then all this sweating and stammering and straining against his pants would settle down. Really, it was just his long dormant libido coming out of hibernation, forced out by all the focus Harry’d needed to have on dicks lately. That’s all it was. He took another deep breath, and then looked up from the clipboard feeling more composed already. This would be fine. Nothing to it.

Malfoy was thrusting the dong in and out of Amy with a look concentration, and Harry imagined he could hear his Subconscious Hermione silently screaming that things were not going to be even remotely fine, at all. Malfoy flicked his hair out of his eyes with a quick jerk of his head, and caught the tip of his tongue between his lower lip and his teeth. Harry was mesmerised, his eyes drifting from Malfoy’s mouth, to his hands, to the dildo squelching in and out of the pussy. 

“That, ah, should be quite enough, thanks Malfoy,” Harry said, staring down at the readings on his parchment. 

“Anus next?” Malfoy set King Dong on the workbench and uncapped the lubricant again to slick his fingers.

“Mmmhmm,” Harry followed Malfoy’s hands as they pressed the toy’s buttocks apart with one hand, and the fingers of the other slid smoothly into the gleaming rubber arsehole. A cursory three pumps of his fingers, and Malfoy retreated again, returning with the dildo. 

“Ready, Potter?”

“Mmmhmm,” Harry murmured again, and Malfoy got to work, gently but firmly thrusting the dong in and out. Harry dragged his eyes away with some difficulty, and looked back down at his clipboard. All readings looked perfectly average for what he expected from two non-magical sex toys. “So, do people really tell you those sorts of things?”

“What sort?” Malfoy looked up briefly from his task, frowning slightly.

“About whether they’ve used a - a plug before, things like that.”

“Well, yes Potter. I mean, it's not like some of them aren't a bit embarrassed at first, but it’s an important question to know the answer to. I don’t want anyone hurting themselves on something enormous just because they’re a bit shy about admitting they haven’t had more than a finger back there before. Besides, a happy customer is a repeat customer, so I want them to enjoy their new toy, and come back for something more advanced when they’re ready.” Malfoy grinned at him. “Don’t worry Potter, I’m very gentle on the first timers.” Malfoy pulled the dildo all the way out of Amy with a soft pop. “Enough?”

Harry nodded. “Now onto...”

“Roger,” Malfoy helpfully supplied. 

“Roger,” Harry agreed. Malfoy hoisted Roger’s bulky frame onto its front, the bollocks thunking gently as they moved. 

“Might need you to lube him up while I keep the cheeks open,” Malfoy said. _Christ and Hades._ Harry set down his clipboard and picked up the lube, slicking up his two right fingers again. Malfoy had a hand on each synthetic buttock, parting them to reveal a realistically puckered hole, and Harry realised he would need to at least partly lean on Malfoy’s arm if he was going to be able to do what he needed to. He thrust his fingers in quickly, smearing the lube around as efficiently as he could manage, then squeezed some more onto King Dong. With a quick tap of his wand, both dildo and doll glowed a soft lavender.

Harry hesitated. “Erm, sorry Malfoy, I’m just going to have to, sort of lean on you a bit.”

“Quite alright Potter,” Malfoy did the thing again, the thing where he looked Harry up and down. Harry swallowed, then leaned in with the dildo in hand.

“Right-o.” It was a curious sensation, the blunt feel of the dildo butting up against the opening. There was a resistance he hadn’t expected, the dong bending slightly under the force of his push. Harry seemed to have thought it might go in more easily; he used a little more effort, and then it breached, and the dong slid swiftly to the hilt. Harry was pressed shoulder to navel against Malfoy’s back equally swiftly. 

“In and out, Potter,” Malfoy prompted with obvious amusement. 

“Git,” Harry muttered, and so he began thrusting away with the dildo, like it was some sort of clumsy, sticky, obscene sword fight. 

He tried very hard not to breathe Malfoy in, but Malfoy smelled unfairly delicious, and then there was the matter of how lovely and warm, and firm, his body felt where it was pressed against Harry’s. He could feel his glasses slipping slowly down to his nostrils, aided by the sweat gathering on bridge of his nose. Malfoy hadn’t looked all sweaty and weird when _he’d_ been smashing the dildo around between the artificial thighs of a sex doll. How was that fair? In fact, this was all quite horribly _un_ fair. Malfoy growing up hot was unfair. Harry growing up to be a workaholic with no sex life was most certainly un-fucking-fair. Sodding Balter Throttlebottom bossing him about was right up there, too. All he’d wanted was _a quiet life_ , why did these things have to keep happening to _him_? Had he not done _enough?_ He’d died in the forest once, would he have to die of embarrassment too, without having done anything even remotely sexually adventurous? 

“Steady on, Potter. I think Roger’s had quite enough, don’t you?” Harry ceased thrusting, and looked wildly at Malfoy, whose brows once again climbed towards his hairline. “Ok-aaay,” Malfoy said slowly and calmly, letting go of Roger’s buttocks and gently removing the dildo from Harry’s hands. It decoupled from Roger with a slick pop. “Perhaps we could take a quick break, Potter, what do you think?” Malfoy’s voice was quiet and soothing, and he removed his gloves with efficient movements. Harry was feeling a bit hot and faint, and he clumsily mimicked Malfoy’s actions until both gloves were scrunched on the bench. 

Harry let himself be led back into his office, Malfoy guiding him with a warm, sure hand on the small of his back, and he sat down on his creaky divan without saying his usual prayer to ward off it’s imminent collapse. 

Malfoy picked up Harry’s old teacup and gave it a sniff, then Banished the cold tea and _Scourgified_ it, before Conjuring a fresh, hot cup of Darjeeling. He handed it to Harry before Conjuring a teacup of his own, and filling it with what smelled like a white Jasmine tea. He let Harry sip for a few moments in silence, watching him shrewdly over the top of his cup.

“So,” Malfoy said eventually. “Things got a bit weird in there, Potter. I’d go so far as to say you had a bit of a turn.”

Harry put his cup down and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. “Sorry. I’m - I’m having a bit of a strange week. Today in particular.”

Malfoy sipped his tea, and crossed his legs at the knee. “Would you care to talk about it?” Harry gave him a look before dropping his head again. Malfoy rolled his eyes. “I think you’ll find I’m quite a good listener, Potter. And I’ve heard quite a lot of peculiar shit in my time.”

Harry laughed a little hysterically. “I don’t know how peculiar it is, Malfoy. Throttlebottom’s making a lot of noise about the case, and that means the Minister’s been breathing down my neck to get it done. I’ve just been working a bit too hard this week. I probably just need a nap, and something to eat that didn’t come out of a packet.”

Malfoy snorted slightly into his cup. “Throttlebottom’s a pustulant little boil, isn’t he.” Malfoy paused. “Kingsley Shacklebolt shouted at me, once. I didn’t have a solid bowel movement for at least a week after.”

Harry let out a surprised bark of laughter, and Malfoy smiled. The tension eased, and Harry felt some of his muscles unclenching. 

“So,” Malfoy said again. “I’m no expert on your life, Potter, but I’d reckon you’ve dealt with some stressful things in your time. Saviour, Auror, all that. Why has this case gotten under your skin?”

Peering into his cup, Harry stared for a long moment at his reflection in the dark brown tea. “Hermione thinks - that I’m hiding behind my job so I don’t have to deal with stuff. Life stuff. Relationships.” Merlin’s arse, it felt weird to say that aloud, weird enough that he was saying it to Malfoy, a man he’d barely spoken to for a decade - but it also felt a bit like relief. “And this case, well, it leads to a lot of banter about sex, doesn't it? And once that sort of chat is going on, then it’s never too long before I start getting harassed about my love life, and how unhealthy my coping mechanisms are.” Harry sighed again, and it felt like it was coming from the pit of his stomach.

“And what do you think about that?”

Harry gave Malfoy a wry smile. “I think Hermione Granger is one to talk about being a workaholic.”

Malfoy grinned back. “Sounds like she hasn’t changed much. So, what’s a week like in the life of The Workaholic Who Lived?”

He gave Malfoy two fingers and nearly spilled his tea on himself for his trouble. “Obviously I have a full time job, as you can see. I’m in the office by eight most mornings, and normally head off around six. I have lunch with Ron most days in the Ministry refectory, unless one of us is in the field. Sometimes we might venture out for a pub meal if Hermione’s free too. Monday, Wednesday and Sunday are gym nights. I’m not technically required to train now that I’m not auroring, but I like keeping it up. Thursday is always beers at the Leaky with the old Auror crew. Friday night is family dinner with the Weasleys, and the last Sunday of every month I have lunch with my cousin Dudley.”

“What about Tuesday?” Malfoy sipped his tea.

“Tuesday is washing day.”

“Always?”

“Absolutely. Everybody knows Tuesday’s are the worst day of the week. It's only right to scrub your underpants then, and not waste one of the good days on it.” Malfoy was smiling at him again, and Harry couldn't help doing the same.

“So what about Saturday?” 

“Oh.” Harry shrugged. “I normally try and do some work, I suppose.”

“I think this week you should come out to a club with me, instead.” Malfoy settled back in his chair, and waited. Harry’s throat felt dry, and he took a huge mouthful of tea.

“Clubbing? Malfoy, we’re thirty two.”

“We're not dead, Potter. I’m not sure if anybody’s reminded you of this recently, but you’re young and attractive. You should put on something tight and go out and find someone who’ll take it all back off you again, preferably with their teeth.” At that, Harry choked slightly on his tea and spent several minutes coughing into a hastily Conjured hanky. Malfoy watched him calmly until he’d caught his breath again. “So the idea of a casual pull caused you to inhale your beverage. Potter, I have to ask - are you…?” Malfoy cocked one eyebrow at Harry and left the rest unsaid.

“I’m not a _virgin_ ,” Harry said from behind his hanky.

Malfoy raised his hands innocently. “Of course not. I was going to say ‘religious’ - like, have you taken vows of some sort, Potter? Aside from the near terminal embarrassment you seem to suffer from at the very mention of sex, I have literally never seen a verified article of gossip about you in the papers, and you’re still one of their favourite topics. Especially at _Witch Weekly_. I’ve never heard a breath of scandal. There’s never once been a leaked naughty photo, or an exposé from a former lover.” Malfoy’s eyes felt like they were looking straight through him. “What’s that about?”

Harry groaned, and dropped his hands to glare at Malfoy. “I’m not a monk, either, Malfoy, I’m just a very-”

“Good boy?” Malfoy had absolutely no business looking so virtuous, when saying something with such wicked innuendo.

“ _Private person,_ ” Harry choked out. “And a bit busy, thanks, saving the world and all that.”

Malfoy seemed unfazed. “But it’s been quite a while though, hasn't it.” Harry wondered wildly if Malfoy could actually _see_ how long it’d been since Harry last pulled, if there was some kind of tell he wasn’t aware of. “Since you quit the Auror’s,” Malfoy continued after a moment, raising an eyebrow questioningly. “So it’s not like you’re saving the world all the time anymore. Definitely saving a few arses and noses from biting objects, but that’s hardly warrior stuff, is it?”

“Do you actually have a point you’re trying to make, Malfoy?” Harry said, through gritted teeth.

Malfoy set down his tea, and counted off on his fingers. “You’re not a virgin, nor have you taken religious orders. But you’re also seemingly celibate, and you clearly found our business in the lab completely overwhelming. By your own description, you do absolutely nothing but work, visit your childhood friends, and wash your knickers. Now, as much as fifteen year old me would have found this wildly entertaining, I’m not him anymore, and you have a garden full of cocks you need to sort out. So why don’t you come out with me on Saturday night, have a bit of a drink and a dance, see if someone might snog you, and break the ice a little?”

After a moment, Harry said “Malfoy, you’re actually serious. You want to take me out on the pull.”

Malfoy shrugged and picked up his tea again. “Why not? Someone needs to do it. You can’t tell me that Granger hasn’t tried to get you back out there.” Hermione most certainly had. Ginny, too. But the idea of going out, looking for a shag, with his well meaning best friend and/or equally well meaning ex girlfriend looking on supportively, occasionally pushing him towards some likely target, was just - it was far too much pressure.

Harry opened his mouth, and closed it again. Malfoy snorted slightly into his cup. “Good lord, Potter, I haven’t asked you out to slaughter a litter of kneazles in a midnight ritual. Its a few drinks and maybe some awkward shuffling on the dance floor - from you, that is. I’m as graceful as a peacock.” At this, it was Harry’s turn to snort, and Malfoy pretended he wasn’t smirking into his tea. “I’m not going to try and convince you, Potter. Frankly I consider this a public service. For the record, I’m going out to a Muggle club, so this isn’t a set up to papp you, or anything like that. Just an offer for a bit of fun. You seem like you might need it.”

A Muggle place, then. Harry sipped his tea thoughtfully for a moment. He really did need to get back on the horse; this mini meltdown made that painfully clear. He needed to break the ice, as Malfoy said. He couldn’t bear the well meaning enthusiasm of his best friends, not yet at least. Malfoy, on the other hand, was not a friend, although he had been fairly decent just lately, even counting the rinsing, which was surely to be expected and was not entirely unpleasant.

“Okay,” Harry said suddenly, before he could talk himself out of it. “Let’s go out.”

“Good for you, Potter,” Malfoy said, swirling the last of his tea around the well of his cup. “I’ll owl you with the details.” He stood, and Vanished his cup. “Time for me to head off, as delightful as this has been.”

Harry went red again. “Git.”

Malfoy’s laugh was as unfairly attractive as the rest of him. “I’ll see you on Saturday, Potter.”

Harry sat on the divan for another few minutes after Malfoy left, and eventually got up only when his tea was entirely gone, and his flush with it. With a slightly weary sigh he stood and gathered his things; robes from the hook beside his door, satchel too, putting out lamps as he moved from his office to reception, and then to the door of the lab. Amy and Roger remained sprawled on the bench, the King Dong rising proudly between them. Harry groaned and threw a _Scourgify_ at all three, whisking away the sticky lube. Another swish and flick, and a tarp was settling neatly on top of the whole lewd collection. For the first time in a long time, Harry locked the door of the lab behind him, and charmed it to open strictly to his magical signature. The very last thing he needed was the weekend custodian stumbling in and lodging a formal complaint with Facilities. 

Again.

*


	3. Chapter 3

Harry stared at himself hard in the mirror. And not the regular mirror either, not the one which hung above the sink in his bathroom, which always _had_ to have a little dig at the state of his hair - no, that wouldn’t do. This was serious. This required the big mirror, the long, full length one in the master bedroom that he almost never bothered with, but which thankfully didn't talk back.

“Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck._ ”

Harry was not what anyone would describe as fashion conscious. Or naturally blessed with any sort of style. Hermione was largely responsible for anything to do with Harry’s clothing, including the system of fitted wardrobes she’d convinced him to install about five years earlier. They had been disgustingly expensive, but even Harry’d had to admit, kind of amazing. All he had to do was toss his clean items onto the floor of the wardrobe, and magic took care of the rest - steaming and pressing, hanging, organising. The _Armoire 5000_ even came with its own charm to ward off moths, so Harry never had to think about whiffy mothballs or holey jumpers again. 

This was all dead useful, because as sartorially challenged as Harry was, he was even worse at hanging up after himself; the last straw had really been the time a spider had actually crawled out of his shirt pocket during a dinner out with Hermione and Ron. Both of them had been equally vexed with him when he’d confessed he’d picked the shirt up from a pile on the floor and hadn’t even bothered with an ironing charm for it. Apparently, everyone worth his salt knew you shouldn't leave your clothes in piles if you didn't want pockets full of spiders. Harry had reminded them that he’d grown up under the stairs, and having pockets full of spiders was basically normal as far as he knew, but for once neither of his friends had let him get away with that as an excuse. Ron’s lecture had come from behind the safety of Hermione’s hair, while she gently Levitated the spider out the front door of the restaurant and into a hanging basket of summer flowers. Sometimes Harry still thought about Ron’s face that night, when he needed cheering up.

Despite the best efforts of both Hermione and the wardrobe, however, Harry still found himself with nothing to wear and a rising sense of impending doom. 

He had a basic Ministry uniform of plain business shirts in various inoffensive shades - strictly without patterns, so that he was never at risk of making any potentially jarring matches using his own judgement - and in a seemingly endless quantity, because if Harry was indifferent to hanging things up, he was even worse about doing his washing. He could probably go at least a month without washing, and still manage not to wear the same shirt twice. He had trousers in equally inoffensive black, grey and navy, and a collection of neutral ties which Hermione added to every Christmas, and which didn’t clash with anything else he owned. They all hung neatly on hangers and hooks on the left, helpfully ordered by colour. 

Neat though it may be, it was also boring as fuck and borderline middle-aged, which was depressing, and his casual gear was not much better. It seemed Harry had about a million t-shirts, and a couple of pairs of jeans, and little else beyond tracksuit bottoms. His shoes were either beaten up old trainers, or sensible Oxfords, and that one pair of expensive running shoes he’d splurged on for his last birthday. He owned a surprising number of cardigans, and the Weasley jumpers almost needed a wardrobe of their own. Other than that, there was his old Auror uniform, his dress robes (which he hadn’t worn in recent memory), and his Hogwarts uniform. 

Finding an outfit for a Muggle club had taken practically the whole day, and Harry wasn’t convinced he had succeeded, now that he was taking a second look.

The work trousers were obviously ruled out. They looked precisely like what they were, and Harry felt he’d be laughed out of the club if he showed up wearing any of them. And his jeans all had holes in them, which he sort of thought he might have read somewhere was actually on trend, but he wasn’t entirely sure and so they had best all be avoided. In the end, he had dug up an old pair of black jeans which were still nearly new. Harry remembered purchasing them quite vividly; after the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione had been dumping an extraordinary amount of gear out of her famous beaded bag, piles of books, what seemed like a hundred flasks and phials, and just about every article of clothing Harry had owned up to that point in his life. She had commented to Harry as she sifted through a mountain of threadbare t-shirts and holey socks, that it might be about time he had some new clothes. 

Harry had never actually been shopping for new clothes, unless you counted his first set of Hogwarts robes. It’d sounded weird when he'd told Hermione, but despite having access to his own money once he'd rejoined the magical world when he was eleven, getting himself some proper kit that actually fit him had never been high on his list of priorities, and frankly he'd felt slightly selfish anytime he'd thought about sorting himself out a nice pair of trousers, or a t-shirt that wasn't full of holes (or which was possibly actually a Dudley-shaped tent). 

Hermione'd very nearly marched him to Oxford St by the ear, and Harry'd returned home with more bags than he'd thought humanly possible. Of these, the black jeans were probably his most extravagant purchase, but they'd remained almost unworn. The rapid addition of muscle Harry’d put on from the punishing Auror training (and the resultant prodigious volume of food he’d begun eating) soon found the trousers fitting a little more snugly around the thighs and arse than Harry normally preferred. 

Both Ginny and Hermione had told him that the tight fit had made them suit him even more (Ginny mentioning something about being ‘thick’ more than once), and the jeans had really been very expensive, so Harry didn't feel right about chucking them out. So he’d kept them, and was glad of it when trying to work out what the fuck he was going to wear to this Muggle club Malfoy was dragging him to, because he really didn’t have anything else that would remotely do. 

Harry had also managed to find himself a pair of underpants that weren't too embarrassing - once again, thanks to his annual Christmas gift from Hermione, to go with the sensible ties and socks. Not that he was expecting anything to happen, to meet someone and have it get to the stage where underpants were being revealed. It was a practical issue, really. The jeans were so tight, and sort of low rise. Harry looked like a proper muppet with his normal cotton boxers spilling out over the waistband like foam on a pint. These pants of Hermione’s were also quite tight, and lower cut than he was used to. The thick waistband had some designers name on it, nobody Harry knew (which didn’t say much), and could just be seen wrapping around his hips beneath the jet black denim. They were doing interesting things to Harry’s bits, as well. The pants had sort of _clutched_ his cock and balls, and pushed them together and forward, not ungently, until he was sporting a fairly impressive bulge at the front. 

Fuck.

“This is obscene,” Harry said, with mingled horror and awe. He’d never looked so...well endowed. Even with the jeans over the top, it was a bit hard to miss. “I can’t go out in public like this, surely.” What if he _did_ somehow pull tonight? The other person might be disappointed when they got past the wonderpants and found that Harry was, in fact, just average in the cock department. On the other hand, what if a prospective pull got a look at the old, loose, snitch-and-broom patterned boxers he normally got around in...well, that would turn anybody off. “Jesus Christ,” Harry said, twisting to the side to get a view of how the jeans plastered themselves to both his arse and his crotch. He was going to get arrested for public indecency. 

The rest of the outfit was no easier. Harry tried all of his shirts, but found he looked disturbingly like Michael Flatley when pairing any one of them with the tight jeans, and quickly ruled them all out too. Something plain seemed like a safe choice, so he pulled on a white t-shirt, groaning when he found it barely reached his hips and clung to his shoulders and chest. In desperation he threw on an old leather jacket that had once belonged to Sirius. It was buttery-soft and somewhat comforting, and he felt slightly less exposed with it on. 

There was no more time to fuss around if he wanted to attempt to sort out his hair. Harry grabbed a pair of dragonhide boots with ornate buckles, another find from Sirius’ old wardrobe, and pulled them on as he hopped into the bathroom. 

“Oh, my days!”

Harry squinted at the bathroom mirror. “Erm - pardon?” Something strange was happening to the glass. It was turning a sort of pink colour, and a fog of condensation was rapidly forming on the surface even though Harry’s shower had been hours and hours ago. There was no steam left in the bathroom to speak of. “Are you quite alright?”

The mirror appeared to be breathing heavily. “Just fine, pet...oh, my.”

Harry frowned at the glass. “Right-o. Well, what have you got to say about my hair, then? Terrible, litter of badgers nesting in it, looks like I was dragged through a bush backwards?” He pulled open the drawer under the sink, and grabbed the jar of Sleekeazy’s Hair Cement with great resentment. He’d never quite got the hang of using it - Hermione had managed to wrestle his hair into a reasonably respectable configuration once or twice in the past, but Harry hadn't had the same success. It had always turned out like a bit of a thick, black, hairy helmet.

“Stop!”

Harry froze, the lid of the jar not yet entirely unscrewed. “What?”

“Don’t you _dare_ do anything else with your hair,” the mirror said wheezily. 

“Are you mad?” Harry stared at the mirror, which was sweating profusely and was now a rosy pink. “You’ve never let me leave this room without at least three insults specifically about my hair.” Harry scowled at the glass. “Some of them have really hurt my feelings, actually.”

“Not this time, pet. In those jeans, that t-shirt, your hair looks - looks like…”

“Like what?”

“Like you invented shagging,” the mirror puffed, and the glass shivered and dripped rather violently.

“Gross,” Harry grimaced, taking several steps away from the vanity, and setting the jar of hair cement down on the cistern of the toilet. His mirror was a total perv, and now he was going to have to move his bedroom to at least another floor because there was no way he was ever going to shower or relieve himself in this one ever again.

The clock in the hall began to chime, and Harry swore. He really didn't have time for this. He pushed his hands roughly into his hair, and the mirror gasped.

“Oh, _yes!_ ”

That was well and truly enough. Time to go. Harry didn’t look at the mirror again, but as he turned his back he was sure he heard a low and glassy “Phwoar!”.

He tried to regulate his breathing as he collected his his belongings. Wallet shrunk, as he couldn't actually fit it in his ridiculous jeans otherwise. Mobile likewise stowed. Wand holster fitted to his right thigh and Disillusioned so that he could keep it at hand but invisible to Muggles and magical folk alike. He was ready, as he ever would be, anyway. For better or worse, he was going out tonight; going out for the first time in years, going out on the _pull_. Going out with _Draco Malfoy_ , who was possibly the fittest person he’d ever met and who was the present owner of a thriving sex shop and therefore was about a thousand times more sexually experienced than Harry. He was going out in clothes which were basically painted onto him. If he so much as had a mildly sexual thought tonight, it would probably be visible to the wide world, and he strongly suspected he would be having a number of sexual thoughts around Malfoy whether he wanted to or not. 

At the bottom of the stairs, he pressed his hand hard to the centre of his chest. “You killed a Basilisk when you were twelve. You stole a dragon from Gringotts. You killed _Voldemort_. You will _not_ have a panic attack about going to a bar for a quick drink.”

Harry let himself out onto the top step of Grimmauld Place, ignored the anxious thrumming of his pulse, and consoled himself that at least if he died of a heart attack on the way, he would be wearing decent pants for once.

*

Harry Apparated to a lane not far from Old Street Station in Shoreditch, and made his way at a brisk clip to Tabernacle Street. The club was called Throb, and Harry had told Malfoy on the phone that morning that it sounded like a strip club. Not that Harry had ever been to one. He’d felt a pillock as soon as the words had left his mouth, but Malfoy had only laughed, and it had done strange things to Harry’s stomach.

He was vaguely familiar with most of London, a byproduct of his former Auror days, and Tabernacle was only a few minutes walk from the station. Not far enough to account for the redness in Harry’s cheeks, but he was determined to go through with this, every agonising moment of it, no matter how much he blushed or sweated, or how much Malfoy rinsed him for it. He needed this. Malfoy and Hermione were right (which would probably cause either of them to die of shock if they knew they were in agreement), and like everything else he’d overcome in his life, it was a matter of throwing himself into it and letting his body find its natural rhythm. Just like it had with flying, with Quidditch, with magic in general.

Unfortunately, Harry’s natural rhythm for this seemed determined to be ‘heart palpitations and almost falling on your head’.

As he rounded the corner past the fish and chippery, he could already hear the sticky pulse of music. Throb was an apt name for the place by all accounts. Malfoy was easy to spot, even at this distance. He tried not to obviously stumble, and swore, low and long under his breath. Malfoy was leaning against the brick wall of a building slightly past the corner, lazily dragging on a Muggle cigarette. The neon pink of the club signage glowed down on him, and he looked...he looked like the perfect, impossible balance of casual and posh, Muggle and magic, of inviting and completely untouchable. 

He looked like something Harry would very much like to put his mouth on.

Malfoy wore a fitted black shirt, something that looked both soft and crisp at once, and which was rolled up at the sleeves to the elbow and unbuttoned to somewhere down the middle of his chest. Over the top was a grey waistcoat which just skimmed his hips, the first two buttons also unfastened. There was a heavy silver-coloured watch at one wrist which looked expensive. His trousers were also grey and slim cut, tight around the thigh where Malfoy’s foot was resting against a narrow ledge of brick in the wall behind him. Even his boots looked incredible, butterscotch-coloured and satin polished. 

Harry could feel the moment Malfoy saw him; looked up from his cigarette through a curl of fuschia tinged smoke and smiled, slow and easy like this was all perfectly normal. Harry felt his breath catch and knew he was fucked, really, actually fucked. 

Just, totally fucked.

“Harry Potter,” Malfoy said, pushing off the wall and crushing the cigarette under a heel in one graceful movement. He looked Harry up and down, a smile barely quirking his lips. “Look at you.” His eyes dropped back down, trailed down Harry’s body for a second look with an almost palpable intensity.

Harry coughed and pulled self-consciously at the hem of his t-shirt, then ran a nervous hand through his hair. “Yeah, sorry. I don’t really have a clue about clothes. I probably should’ve asked Hermione for help. You look-” _Amazing. Delicious._ Harry swallowed hard. “Very smart. I’m scruffy,” Harry laughed ruefully and shoved his hand through his hair again. “I feel a bit under-dressed actually.”

Malfoy’s smile was liquid. “You look good, Potter. Scruffy suits you. Never managed to pull it off, myself.” Harry immediately had at least fourteen simultaneous fantasies of Malfoy pulling himself off and bit down on his lower lip, hard. “I suppose I was always a bit jealous of you in school for that. The effortless sex appeal, just-jumped-off-a-broom thing. It was magnetic.”

Harry barked a surprised laugh. “What was in that cigarette, Malfoy? I think you’ve forgotten I was a spotty, speccy runt with hair like an old toothbrush. Were you smoking them at Hogwarts, too?” 

Malfoy just kept smiling at him and turned towards the club entrance. “Come along, Potter. I find myself quite thirsty, all of a sudden.” Malfoy slid his hands into his trouser pockets, and the fabric pulled tighter across his arse. Christ, Malfoy’s arse was unfairly perfect. The last thing he needed was to start getting hard in these jeans. Harry followed, doing his best not to stare at Malfoy’s backside directly, with mixed results. 

A queue snaked its way down the street, kept in formation by a velvet rope strung between regularly spaced brass bollards. Harry wondered how these Muggles could stand to line up in the cold like that, especially the girls, who seemed rather under-dressed for standing outdoors on a cool mid-September evening. Harry was glad of his leather jacket, as a puff of cold wind ruffled the sweaty hair at the nape of his neck. 

Malfoy wasn’t heading to line up, however; he was sauntering directly up to the bouncer with a wide smile. “Evening, Martin.”

Martin gave Malfoy what appeared to be an almost warm smile, if he was capable of such a thing. He was enormous, with a neck as thick as one of his own meaty thighs, and he looked like he might burst out of his suit jacket with one unexpected sneeze. “Mr Malfoy, good to have you back. Are you joining us this evening?”

“Indeed. I realise it’s a bit early, but I was wondering if you might let my friend and I pop upstairs for a drink before the doors open.”

It wasn't really a question; or at least, it didn’t seem like Malfoy was in any doubt as to the answer. Martin was only too happy to step aside and usher Mr Malfoy and his guest right through, ignoring the catcalls and boos from the unhappy queuers left relegated to the chilly street for a while longer. Inside, the foyer smelled like every bar Harry had ever been to, Muggle or magical; a musty combination of stale cigarette, beer, and disinfectant. Malfoy stopped briefly at the ticket window and exchanged air kisses with a woman he called Darling. She beckoned Harry over and both he and Malfoy were duly stamped on the wrist with the club logo in vivid pink ink.

“A regular here, are you?” Harry asked Malfoys arse, the sound of the street falling away as they ascended the stairs. “They all seem to know you. I notice we didn't have to line up. Or pay the cover charge. ”

“I know the owner well,” Malfoy said over his shoulder, and then the stairs ran out and they were in a large, open space that was filled with the deep, syrupy beat he could hear from outside. The bar itself wrapped around the entire right-hand side of the room, and the left was a series of booths and alcoves, small and large, with leather seats and narrow tables. But most of the room was taken up by the enormous dance floor, which was sunk three steps down, and which had a platform in the very centre in which several people seemed to be setting up musical equipment. There were people testing lighting rigs, bartenders polishing glasses and slicing fruit. It was a hive of activity, and there was not a single other patron in sight but himself, and Malfoy. 

“Are you sure it’s alright for us to be here?”

“Of course,” Malfoy said, walking smoothly towards the bar. “Trust me, Potter. Try to suspend your disbelief and let yourself trust that I’m here to look after you tonight.”

Well, that just made Harry feel even sweatier. A drink would be welcome. Five would be even more welcome, actually.

“Clementine,” Malfoy smiled widely at the nearest bartender, leaning against the polished benchtop.

“Draco. You’re looking delectable as always.” Clementine grinned back at Malfoy, and then cocked her head at Harry. “And this is…?”

“Harry.” Malfoy had both elbows on the bar and one foot cocked on the polished rail near the floor. Naturally, his trousers were pulling tight across his backside again. Malfoy was smiling his liquid smile. “Harry and I are old school friends. We haven’t seen each other in a very long time, and I thought I’d take him out for a bit of fun.”

Clementine raised her eyebrows. “Lucky boy.”

Harry blushed and looked at the bottles lined up on the glass shelves behind her. “Yes, Malfoy’s very kind to take me out.”

A huge smile broke over Clementine’s face, and she looked between Harry and Malfoy, and back again. “I meant him,” she said, casually, and Malfoy laughed and called her a bint. He pulled out a credit card from his waistcoat pocket and held it out to her. 

“Set up a tab for me, would you?”

Clementine refused to take it. “You know your money’s no good here, Draco. If the Boss got wind of it, I’d be strung up by my tits.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “She’s not still - for goodness sake.” He held out the card again. “I’ve got plenty of money, I don’t need free drinks from her.”

“Then take it up with _her_ , Draco. I have my orders.”

Malfoy pursed his lips, and slid the card away again. “Is Her Majesty here tonight?”

Clementine ginned and placed two glasses on the countertop, dropping a nearly perfectly round sphere of ice into each with steel tongs. “In the flesh. She’s not expected on the floor until after the DJ set has started but I’m sure she’ll find you.”

“Doesn’t she always.”

She turned and picked a slender bottle of amber-coloured liquid from the shelves, and poured a measure into each glass. The alcohol looked thick and smelled like honey. “This is mead from a little village in Poland called Stara Wieś. Absolutely lush but it’ll also knock you right on your arse, so pace yourselves.” Clementine placed the bottle on the countertop alongside the glasses. “Now, I want you to take these and find yourselves a nice cozy spot to get reacquainted, and I’ll check in on you every now and then to make sure you don’t need any provisions.”

“Yes, milady,” Malfoy said mockingly, but Harry could see there was nothing behind it but banter. He picked up the glasses in one hand, and the neck of the bottle in the other. “Come along, Potter.”

Harry raised a hand in an awkward wave at Clementine, who grinned widely. “Have fun, gents.”

Malfoy led Harry to a corner alcove, just big enough to fit three at a squeeze on a battered leather bench, and with a small table. Even so, Harry was painfully conscious of where Malfoy’s limbs were located, though Malfoy seemed not to notice.

“Bottoms up, Potter.” Malfoy raised his glass and Harry did the same, then lifted it to his lips for a slow sip. The scent of honey filled his senses, and the mead burned down his throat in a hot rush. “If things go well tonight, this might not be the only bottom you find is up for you.” And then, Harry was choking, coughing down the thick liquid as the fumes stung his sinuses. Malfoy was laughing. “Good lord, Potter, relax. I’ve really never seen anyone wound quite so tightly as you.”

Harry said nothing, his cheeks burning. Malfoy put his glass on the table. “Potter. I know we don’t know each other very well, despite how long we’ve actually been acquainted. With that in mind, I want to assure you that you don’t have to answer this question if you don’t want to. But…” Malfoy paused, a line forming between his brows. “Are you alright, Potter? Did something happen to you, to make all this-” Malfoy waved his hand between them, “-problematic?”

Circe’s _tits_. “No, nothing happened to me. Nothing _ever_ happens to me in - this department.” He caught Malfoy’s climbing eyebrows. “I don't mean that I’m a virgin, I told you that already.” Malfoy sipped his drink in silence, and looked back at him with large eyes. Waiting for Harry to say his piece.

Good grief, he was going to do this, wasn’t he. He was going to confess all his sexual woes to Draco Malfoy, former schoolyard nemesis and current purveyor of sex toys. He had to, really. He needed some help.

Harry took another sip of the mead to fortify him, and coughed for nearly a full minute. Malfoy waited.

“Nothing happened to me, to be clear. No traumatic events - no traumatic _sexual_ events,” Harry amended. “I went out with Ginny Weasley for about five years, and we’ve been split up for almost ten now. She was my first, erm, you know. Sexual partner. I liked it, to be clear. I liked sex, and I liked having it with her. I loved _her_. I still love her now, she’s one of my best friends. But, erm.” His glass was hopelessly smudged now with sweaty fingerprints. “I started to realise somewhere along the line that I also sort of wanted to…” Harry cleared his throat again. _Just say it._ “I wanted to be fucked. By a man.” He quickly raised his glass to his lips and swallowed a large mouthful of mead, trying to work out whether to look at Malfoy or not.

When he did lift his eyes from the glass to Malfoy, he looked completely neutral. And the bastard continued to wait, silently. Harry sighed. “She was really good about it. Amazing, really. At first it was just talk, you know. Pillow talk, like.” Christ and Hades. He didn’t dare look at Malfoy now. “When we were in bed she used to whisper things to me, and it would have me in pieces. And eventually that became, um. Touching.” He coughed. “Fingering when she went down on me, that sort of thing. Once she had her fingers in me, and she suggested we brew some Polyjuice so she could fuck me properly next time.” Harry huffed a wry laugh. “I came so hard I thought I’d gone blind.”

That got a snort from Malfoy, and Harry looked up at him quickly and away again. “So what happened next, Potter?”

What, indeed. “I started to have trouble finishing if I didn’t have a finger in me. Gin asked me if I wanted to,” Harry took a deep breath and said the next part in a rush. “Have a threesome with another bloke. Or for me to be with a man while she watched, something like that. I didn’t handle it very well. It didn’t feel right, it felt like I was being unfaithful to Gin even though she was the one suggesting it and said she’d be there. I felt like it was wrong to want it and also to want to be with her, and to have a family. I felt like I had to choose one and stick to it. But I couldn’t decide which, so I just…” Harry trailed off. The truth was that he’d shut down and refused to deal with it, until finally Ginny had taken the decision out of his hands and ended things. Not unkindly, even though it hadn’t been easy on her, either. Harry felt a stirring of remembered shame. Ginny had been so good to him. Still was. He definitely needed to send her something nice tomorrow. Maybe flowers. Maybe one of Malfoy’s toys.

Malfoy still hadn’t said anything. He seemed to be thinking, watching Harry while swirling the mead in his glass idly. Harry laughed nervously, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck and then over his face. “It’s pathetic, right? I’m pathetic.”

“Not remotely,” Malfoy frowned at him. “And the first thing you need to do is stop that sort of negative self talk, Potter. I’m no mind Healer, or life coach - I’m not even your friend, although I think that’s something we could change, if we wanted. My point is, I’m neither professionally obliged nor socially obliged to get involved with your sexual identity crisis, let alone be qualified to do so. I’m just a simple merchant,” Harry snorted and Malfoy’s lips quirked briefly. “But I know people, and I know sexuality, and I know _you_ \- the fundamental you.” Malfoy sipped his mead. “You’re exceptionally capable, Potter. Talented. Think about how easy flying was for you, how easily you picked up Quidditch. You mastered defensive magic literally years before it was on the curriculum and from what I’ve heard, that was just the start. But don’t forget that you were a bit shit at other things.”

Harry barked a surprised laugh. “I can confirm I haven’t forgotten, thanks Malfoy.”

He smiled at Harry. “Have you, though? You seem to expect yourself to adapt to every new skill as if it was your first time on a broom. Why should it be? Why isn’t it okay to struggle for proficiency?” Harry just looked at Malfoy, not sure what to say. “Granger was never very good with flying, if I recall.”

“No,” Harry shook his head. “She’s always been pretty nervous on a broom.”

“But she is the brightest witch of our cohort. Shouldn’t she have been able to master this too?”

Harry sighed. “Point taken, Malfoy, but-”

“And did you give her a hard time about it?”

“Of course not!”

“Alright,” Malfoy said, and sipped his mead again. “I heard Lovegood got married.”

Harry blinked at him. “...Yes. About eight years ago. But they-”

“Split up, yes. Had a couple of kids, didn’t they?”

“Twins,” Harry frowned at Malfoy again. “What are you-”

“And now she’s shacked up with…?”

“I think you know she’s been in a relationship with Millicent Bulstrode for some time.” Harry felt a surge of defensive anger. 

“Don’t you think it strange,” Malfoy said calmly, “that she married Scamander, even though surely she knew she preferred women? Maybe she did it just so he could get her up the duff. She certainly left him quickly enough once she’d had them. Or maybe she wanted to cash in on the family name for professional reasons-”

Harry thumped his glass down on the table and pointed his finger in Malfoy’s face. “That’s a lie, and I won’t have you spreading such rubbish about my friend, Malfoy! You don’t know a thing about their relationship.”

“There he is,” Malfoy said, inexplicably smiling. “Welcome back, Potter. So, if I may sum up; you understand that even exceptionally talented people aren’t brilliant at everything, and it doesn’t make them any less talented. You understand that sexuality is not black and white, and that needs, and relationships, change over time. You accept your friends without judgement and are evidently willing to defend them at the slightest provocation. And yet, you hold _yourself_ to some stricter standard.”

Harry just stared at him.

“I'm no mind Healer,” Malfoy said again, “but I'll give you my two sickles if you like. You're a mess of contradictions, Potter. You're confident - the way you just _do_ wandless magic, and non-verbal spells, there’s no moment of hesitation; you’re completely sure of your capability. The way you were as an Auror, your work now, you follow every thread to its conclusion; that takes a lot of determination and stamina, does it not?” Harry nodded absently. Bloody hell. “But then there's this curious _lack_ of self confidence as well. They way you have no idea how you look, how you make people feel.” 

“How I make people feel,” Harry repeated. 

Malfoy gave him a sly smile. “You’re attractive, Potter. Even this guilelessness is sexy. You’ve got the body of an athlete, and you fill those jeans in a most pleasing fashion. What you’re wearing is simple but it plays to your physical attributes perfectly - well done, you. You claim to have no idea what you’re doing, but you’ve done it very well indeed. And even that-” Malfoy gestured at Harry again. “The blushing. The absent minded biting of the bottom lip, the hair that looks like you spent all afternoon with your head in someone’s lap and their fingers pulling on it-”

“Malfoy!” Harry huffed out an embarrassed laugh. “I think the mead has gone to your head.”

He shrugged. “I think you need to get comfortable with the concept that you’re sexy.”

_Circes tits._ Harry gulped his drink. He wasn’t sexy. He wore cardigans and lab coats, and frumpy old pants with snitches on them. Who in their right mind would find that sexy?

“I want you to do something for me, Potter. The horde is about to be let into the club, and it’s going to be humid, and loud, and filled to the brim with half-nude strangers who are here for the music but also are largely here to find someone to get off with. I want you to come out there with me, right into the thick of it, and just look. See how they react to you - they’re Muggles, so it's not going to be your reputation, or your magic. It’s going to be just you. Just Harry.”

Harry drew a sharp breath and looked up at Malfoy, who was looking right back at him intently. He looked away again, cast his eyes across the club and saw that the busy workers had finished their business at the DJ booth, and the bar staff were ready at their stations. The music became fractionally louder, and the next moment the first wave of patrons came surging up the stairs and onto the floor, a rush of bodies moving to claim seats, to order drinks, to hustle into the restrooms and touch up cosmetics and hair-do’s. 

“I’ll be right there with you, Potter. I won’t let anything happen that you don’t enthusiastically consent to. All I’m suggesting is that you look.”

It occurred to Harry that there was no reason to trust Malfoy. Then again, there was no reason not to, really, not anymore. Harry had always been proud of his intuition, and historically his gut had always been right about Malfoy. It had been right when they were eleven, and right when they were sixteen. And later...Harry pursed his lips and tried to just _feel_. Could he trust Malfoy now?

“Okay,” Harry said, and Malfoy smiled at him. 

“That’s the spirit, Potter.”

Malfoy wasn’t exaggerating about the crowd. As they sat there, their bottle rapidly draining between them, Harry watched the patrons pouring in like a sweaty, heaving wave. It was packed, the horde three deep, or worse, all along the sprawling bar, and the dance floor was a wall of barely clothed bodies and cheap perfume. He rolled the last, thick mouthful of mead around on his tongue. He’d become used to the kick, now, and the bottle had not been large, but the mead was potent and Harry couldn’t describe himself as sober just at the moment. They’d drunk rather a lot in a short span. 

_Rip the plaster off, Potter. Just get up, and get out there._

Before he could over-think it any further, Harry stood, setting his now empty glass on the table with more force than was necessary. It was muggy now, and so he slipped the leather jacket off and hung it on the back of his chair. “Let’s get this over with.”

Malfoy threw back the last of his own drink, and rose to follow Harry into the throng.

The club was sensory overload. The music throbbed through him, almost like a living thing, and the air was thick with the scent of heated flesh and booze. The crowd heaved, arms raised and fingers reaching towards the ceiling; they too reminded Harry of some sort of single organism, moving as one to the beat. It was almost oppressively hot; sweat prickled along his spine and behind his knees. Malfoy was behind him, his chest pressed to Harry’s back like it had been that night in the lab. He had one hand lightly on Harry’s hip, encouraging him to press deeper into the mass of bodies. “A little further, Potter, that’s it.” His breath was a sultry huff into the shell of Harry’s ear. “Just a little more.”

They reached what Harry supposed must roughly be the middle of the dance floor, and Malfoy stopped prodding him forward and instead gently squeezed Harry’s hip to indicate he should stop. The air was sort of hazy, with purple and red laser lights cutting in and out of the smoke. Harry’s ear was still tingling from where Malfoy’s lips had almost brushed against it; he felt a sudden need to see Malfoy, and twisted around to face him. Malfoy was really there, his pale hair glowing red, purple, red, as the lights flared and subsided. He looked glorious; incongruous in his waistcoat and grey in a sea of neon and glitter, and bare skin. Malfoy smiled at him and leaned closer to be heard. “What are you thinking, Potter?”

Malfoy smelled so good.

“This place is in violation of the Health Act 2006 - no smoking in enclosed workplaces.”

Well, that wasn’t strictly what he’d been thinking about. Malfoy seemed to find this very funny. “It’s a fog machine. Not cigs.”

“Oh,” was all Harry managed. Malfoy took him by the shoulder and turned him back around, and pressed close against his back again. His long fingers closed around both of Harry’s hips this time, and when Malfoy’s lips came to rest ever so slightly against the lobe of one ear, he felt gooseflesh erupt along his neck. 

“Are you ready?”

_No. Yes._ Harry nodded.

“Look at them. Tell me what you see that you like.”

He swallowed and let his eyes wander over the men and women pressing around them. “Her. I like her long hair.” She reminded him a bit of Ginny, completely lost in the music, her eyes closed as she danced. “I like her legs. They look - strong.”

“Strong, Potter? Like you can imagine putting her to work lifting something heavy?”

Harry snorted. “No! Like - like I can imagine how they’d feel... wrapped around my neck when I…”

“When you what, Potter?”

He was definitely getting hard again. “You _know_ what, Malfoy. When I - put my mouth there. Between her legs.”

“And is that something you enjoy doing?”

“Yes.”

“You enjoy pushing your tongue in, tasting her, opening her lips to get your mouth around her clit and sucking it?” Malfoys lips were so soft, barely brushing against his ear, just behind it.

“Y-yeah,” Harry wasn’t sure Malfoy would even hear him over the music, his reply huffed out on a shaking breath.

“Good boy. Tell me what else you see.”

Harry licked his lips. “Him.”

“Be specific.”

“In the orange singlet.” The vest was a horrendous colour, like a traffic cone, but the man underneath was gorgeous. “Looks like he has nice thighs.”

“So you’re a leg man.” Well, now that Malfoy was pointing it out, Harry supposed maybe he was. Once again, he was imagining himself on his knees, between those thighs, the legs perhaps slung over his shoulders, the soft, tanned skin pressed against his cheek as he mouthed kisses up, and up, and up- “Is that all you like about him?” Malfoy was still talking, his hands were still holding firm to Harry’s hips, and now his fingertips were stroking, just slightly, beneath the hem of Harry’s tshirt. 

“Fingers,” Harry breathed. How could Malfoy even hear him, over all this noise. “I like his hands.”

“And what are you imagining doing with those lovely thighs and long fingers, hmm?” Orange Singlet caught his eye. Harry licked his lips again, a nervous impulse, and Orange Singlet gave him a slow smile. 

“I’d want to - I’d want him to finger me, while I blow him.”

“Very good, Harry. Is that what you like? A hard cock in your mouth, and a couple of digits sliding into your tight hole? You want to straddle his face while yours is pressed in his lap?”

Holy fuck. Harry had never got so far as that, at least not anywhere other than in the privacy of his own fantasies. He’d snogged a handful of men, a Healer at one of Hermione’s Christmas parties, the broom tech from the Harpies after a tense World Cup qualifier a few years back. Charlie Weasley, just once, at the Burrow. Nothing more than a brief pash and some over the trousers groping, each time. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I like. I’ve only imagined it.”

Orange Singlet had come closer, and was now standing directly in front of Harry. “Your boyfriend has pretty eyes,” he said to Malfoy, his own never leaving Harry. 

“He’s not mine,”Malfoy said smoothly. “But I have to agree with you about the eyes.”

That finally got Orange Singlet to tear his gaze away from Harry to look at Malfoy. He gave Malfoy a long, appraising look, lingering on where Malfoy’s hands were spread wide on Harry’s hips. 

“Since he’s not yours, I suppose you don’t mind if I dance with him?”

Malfoy squeezed Harry gently. “I think that’s a question you should be asking him.”

Orange Singlet hooked a finger in a belt loop at the front of Harry’s jeans, and tugged him forward, out of Malfoy’s reassuring grip and almost against his neon-clad chest. “Hi. I’m Paul. And you’re gorgeous.”

That prompted an embarrassed huff of laughter from Harry. “It’s Harry, actually. Gorgeous is just my middle name.”

Orange Singlet Paul seemed to like that, although Harry regretted the words as soon as they’d left his mouth. “So. Care for a dance, Harry?”

He hesitated, fighting the urge to look back at Malfoy. “I - actually, I’m just looking tonight. Sorry if I…”

Harry didn’t expect the other man’s easy smile. “That’s okay. It’s nice to look, sometimes. I noticed you looking.” Orange Singlet Paul cocked his head to one side. “Nice thighs and fingers, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, god,” Harry passed one hand over his mouth, cheeks flaming. “You _heard_ that? You must have superhuman hearing.”

He laughed. “I had an unfair advantage. Famously good at lip reading.” He leaned in close, and spoke directly into Harry’s ear. “Famously good with my fingers, too, for future reference.” Harry’s mouth was dry. He wasn’t quite sure how to respond. His body knew, but apparently it hadn’t let his mouth in on the plan. Orange Singlet Paul jostled Harry’s waistband again. “This is your first time out, isn’t it?”

Harry gave him a half smile. “That obvious?”

“The blush suits you.” He looked over Harry’s shoulder, Harry supposed at Malfoy. “It’s good you have a friend to look out for you. Coming out can be hard.”

“Yeah. He’s been...yeah.”

He gave Harry another look, another smile, and withdrew a business card from his trousers. “If you decide you’re ready for more than a look,” Orange Singlet Paul pushed the card into the front pocket of Harry’s jeans, and leaned in close again. “Give me a call.” He grinned cheekily and gave Harry a brief peck on the cheek. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Harry Gorgeous.”

Harry only nodded, face hot, and the other man moved away. 

“That seemed to go well,” Malfoy stepped up beside him. “Wouldn’t you say?”

Harry turned to him, scrubbing a hand up the back of his neck and into his hair. “Fucking hell, Malfoy. He knew what I said about him. He _offered_...”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “But you didn’t accept.” It wasn’t a question. Harry shook his head, once.

“No. I’m not -” Harry cleared his throat and stepped slightly closer. “This is hard for me, Malfoy. I find it hard to let go. To be, uh...vulnerable, I suppose.” That was possibly the most honest thing Harry had told anyone in a long time, and perhaps it was weird that it was in the middle of a Muggle nightclub, to Malfoy, but it was about time he gave the issue air. He _was_ hesitant. Perhaps that had started as a prudent approach, following the break up with Ginny and the absolute media circus that had come with the announcement that they were over. Not that it was an announcement as such, more of a strategically placed comment in an article in the _Quibbler_...but he’d never been harassed so much in his life. Not even right after the war. He was approached, constantly, he received unwashed knickers in the post around the clock, and the nudes - _so many_ nudes. “It’s a bit pathetic, isn’t it.”

Malfoy gripped him suddenly by the chin. “I want you to stop talking like that. I want you to treat yourself with the empathy and respect that you’d treat one of your friends, am I clear?”

Harry stared at Malfoy stupidly for a moment, then nodded. “Yes. Alright.”

He let go of Harry’s face and let his hand come to rest on Harry’s shoulder. “Good boy. Now. How did he make you feel? Let’s talk it out, Potter.” 

Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath, smelled Malfoy in the thick air. “Other than nervous? I felt...a bit sexy, I guess.”

Malfoy was nudged in the back by an enthusiastic dancer, and was abruptly pressed against Harry’s chest. He didn’t move away again, instead placing his other hand back on Harry’s hip and bringing his mouth back to Harry’s ear once again. “Tell me what you were nervous about.”

Mmm, Malfoy’s thumb was stroking his hip like he’d done earlier, and it felt ridiculously good. “I guess it's about being inexperienced. People judging me. People wanting to be with me for the wrong reasons.”

“But he was a Muggle, so he approached you purely because he was attracted to you.”

“Yeah...but how long could I keep something up with someone like him? I could never tell him the truth about magic, and we could never talk about some of the most important things in my life - like work, and what happened to my parents, or why I have so many scars. I don’t think it would work with me and a Muggle.”

Malfoy squeezed him, gently. “So what I’m hearing is, casual sex is not for you. You want to be intimate with someone who knows you.”

“Yeah,” Harry breathed, swaying into Malfoy. “I guess that’s it. I want someone to know me before they get to know my body. I could let down my guard for someone like that.”

“Can you remember the first time you felt desired, Potter?” His lips were nipping at Harry’s ear with every word, and fuck, but Harry was hard, so fucking hard. He felt too hot. It was difficult to focus.

“I remember.”

“Tell me.”

God, he was so _hard_. “It was just before we started Auror training. I was at the Weasley’s and the owls delivered both our uniforms, for Ron and me. Everyone wanted to see us try them on, so I went up to Ginny’s room, and she came in with me, and I had the parcel open.” He swallowed hard. Malfoy was teasing his neck now, the gentlest brush of his lips along the tendons on Harry’s throat. “She was watching me as I started to get undressed. Her eyes - she looked like she wanted to eat me alive.”

And she had done. She had pulled him to her and sucked his cock, and Harry had come so hard, had struggled to keep quiet. 

“How did it make you feel, to be the object of her desire? To know how much she wanted you?”

“...Special.” Harry felt drunk with want, and gripped Malfoy’s hips hard. “Malfoy. You’re kissing my neck.”

“So I am,” Malfoy murmured. “I should probably stop.”

“Or you could keep going. That’s also an option.”

He smiled against Harry’s throat. “No. We agreed that this was going to be about looking, and so that’s what it’s going to be about.”

“You also promised me that you’d make sure nothing happened that I didn’t enthusiastically consent to. Malfoy,” Harry turned his face til their lips were almost touching. “If I consent any more enthusiastically, I’m going to tear a hole in the front of my trousers.”

Malfoy only laughed, and pulled away. “Looking, Potter. Just looking. Now turn around like a good boy, and tell me what you see that you like.”

It went on like that for what felt like hours; it was hard to judge the passage of time, between the weaving lights, the the pounding music, and Malfoy’s wandering hands. He must have watched a dozen people, maybe more, mostly men, and described with growing confidence what it was about them that he found attractive, and if they noticed him looking, what he felt when they did. What he’d like to do to them. What he’d like them to do to him. His cock remained thick and heavy through every lingering moment, but he felt he was perhaps getting his constant flush somewhat under control. He was hardly even stammering at all now. Small victories.

“Hey. Pretty boy.” A man stepped abruptly into Harry’s personal space. “You look like you want your dick sucked.”

Harry took a half step back, and raised a hand between them. “Hi - uh, thanks, I suppose, for that...offer. Erm, I’m actually just here with a friend and I’m not looking for any - sucking. Thank you.”

The man crowded back in, and Harry tried not to make a face that might cause offense. “Whatever you’re into, I’ll have a go. Maybe you like being choked during sex. Maybe you want to be pissed on. Maybe you can’t come unless someone calls you ‘daddy’. At the end of the day, I love cock, and you love cock. So are you coming home with me tonight, or am I going back out on that dancefloor to find someone who will?”

Circe’s tits. “Again, I appreciate the kind offer, but I am truly just up for a night with my friend. Not up for any choking or pissing, or anything else.”

He opened his mouth and seemed about to force the issue, when Malfoy stepped smoothly between them. “Look - someone you know is calling you. Over there.” The man narrowed his eyes in confusion, looking across the crowd.

“Where - who?”

Malfoy leaned closer and pointed to the opposite corner of the club. “Over there - can you see? You better go and see what they want.” With a slight push in the back from Malfoy, the man ambled off as abruptly as he’d arrived, and he was soon lost in the mass of people.

Harry looked at Malfoy, who looked back, utterly unfazed. “How fortunate that he saw someone he knew. Almost like magic.”

“Mmm. Almost. But obviously it was just luck.”

“Obviously.”

Malfoy nodded seriously. “Who would dare use a misdirection charm on a Muggle, in a Muggle venue? In front of a senior member of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.” His expression was one of perfect innocence, and if it had been anybody else Harry might even have believed it. “Nobody I know, certainly.”

“I can’t think of a single person who would be so bold.” They just looked at each other for a long moment.

“I think we’re done for the evening,” Malfoy said, eventually. He was almost smirking again, and he hooked one finger through a belt loop in Harry’s jeans and tugged him towards the stairs. 

“Hey,” Harry said as they reached the topmost step. He caught Malfoy’s elbow and pulled him to a stop. “I wanted to say thanks. For tonight. I had a good time, even though I sort of didn’t want to come, and - and also, thanks for being so...understanding. For being so kind to me. I didn’t expect it.” Malfoy raised an eyebrow and Harry quickly realised how that might have come off. “Uh - no, that sounded horrible. Sorry. I mean to say, it’s not exactly how we’ve behaved in the past, with each other. This was - you’re - erm.” So much for the control over the flush.

Malfoy was just slightly below him, standing on the first step of the stairs. He gave Harry a small smile, and still seemed to be amused, rather than offended. “We haven’t been those boys in a long time, Potter. I’m sure I’ve never said this and I’ll probably deny it if asked, but I respect you. Seeing you in the state you were in last week brought back some unpleasant memories of my own coming out and I wish I’d had someone to tell me I wasn’t a freak. That it was okay not to be sure. That taking your time and waiting til you’re ready is perfectly sensible. That there’s no rush.”

They just stood there for a moment, looking at each other. Then Malfoy smiled again, and started down the stairs. Harry watched him go: graceful, lithe, an unbelievable arse both literally and figuratively. He wanted to do things to that literal arse that he literally barely knew the name for-

“Oi, Potter - I know I said there’s no rush, but that was before you decided to stand at the top of the stairs for the rest of your life. You’re aware this is not an escalator, aren’t you? Potter?”

Harry bit his lip and tried not to smile too obviously. “Keep your hair on, will you?” Malfoy rolled his eyes and started taking the steps two at a time, and Harry ducked his head, grinning, and followed him down.

*

“So. Can I ask you something, Malfoy?”

They’d been walking for a short while, shoulders bumping slightly as they went. It wasn’t that late, not really - not for the clubbing crowd at least. It was quite a bit later than Harry was used to being out, but he felt wide awake, full of adrenaline, full of heat. Malfoy had insisted on walking him to the Apparition point, not that Harry was complaining. Maybe Malfoy was planning on giving him a proper kiss goodnight.

“You might as well. Maybe I’ll even answer you, Potter.” Malfoy’s voice was teasing. “Go on, then. What do you want to ask?”

“Just, what you said about when you came out. Sounds like it was a bad time.”

“I was a queer kid living under the same roof as the Devil’s henchwoman. Voldemort used to pop in for tea with a ruddy great snake. There were werewolves living in the orchard. It wasn’t ideal.”

“So you knew you were gay, even then?” They’d reached the laneway. Malfoy took a quick look around them, and seeing they were alone on the road, took out his wand and proceeded to charm the words _wash me_ onto the grimy rear windscreen of a parked van. 

“I’m not gay, Potter.”

Oh. _Oh._ Oh, _no._

Malfoy looked up from his mischief with a pleased smirk, and then saw Harry’s presumably surprised expression. “I do like men. I also like women. I like people who weren’t born with the body to match the gender they know in their soul, and I like people who don’t feel they were born with any specific gender at all.” Malfoy shrugged. “I tend not to use labels, myself, other than to say I am a sexual person. I like who I like.” 

Harry didn’t quite know what to make of that. Hermione had been the first one to say _bisexual_ , and he’d always thought that’s what he was. But maybe he was like Malfoy. Maybe it wasn’t just about being male or female. Maybe it was much more complicated - or maybe it was simple. Just sexual. Just liking who you like.

“You’ve done very well tonight, Potter. Very well indeed.”

Harry gave Malfoy a look. “Yes, even a hopeless case like me can manage to stand still and leer at people.” He’d meant it to be funny, but Malfoy fixed him with that piercing look again.

“Potter if you don't stop putting yourself down, I’m going to have to take you over my knee.”

“I don't think that’s quite the deterrent you intend it to be,” Harry said, feeling his pulse quicken at the thought of Malfoy baring Harry’s arse and taking his hand to it. And since when had _that_ been one of Harry’s turn ons?

“I’m not entirely sure I intend it to be a deterrent.”

They were standing so close that Harry could feel Malfoy’s body heat warm his bare arms.

“You’ve been flirting with me since I came into your shop.”

Malfoy tilted his head to one side. “Is that a question?”

Harry shook his head. “No. I know you’ve been flirting with me. My question is this: at the end of the day, I love cock, and you love cock. So are you coming home with me tonight, or am I going back out on that dancefloor to find someone who will?”

Malfoy’s laughter ricocheted through the quiet alley like a rogue hex. “Potter, that line was pure shite. I take back everything I said. You’ve done terribly and you’ve learned nothing.”

“Rude. That was my best chat.” Harry shivered in the cold night air. He was freezing, but he could stand here for hours, as long as Malfoy kept smiling at him like that.

“If I remember correctly, you don’t have anything on tomorrow, is that right?” Malfoy slipped a small, rectangular object out of his waistcoat pocket, something the size and shape of a matchbox. “Just the gym in the evening?”

“You memorised my schedule, Malfoy? I’m flattered.”

Malfoy snorted. “There wasn’t much to memorise. Take this,” Harry obediently held out his hand to receive the little object. “I have homework for you. I want you to spend the day in bed, tomorrow. Spend time with yourself. Touch yourself. Think about what you like. Get to know what turns you on so you can tell someone else how you want to be touched. Unshrink this before you start - I think you’ll find it inspiring.”

Fuck.

Harry just stared at Malfoy, who was starting to walk away. “What - no goodnight kiss?”

Malfoy had turned back and taken Harry roughly in his arms almost before he could register what had happened. Malfoy pressed his forehead to Harry’s, nudging his nose along the side of Harry’s and _almost_ brushing their lips together. _Almost._

“Just looking tonight, Potter. Remember? Have fun tomorrow, and call me if you have any questions.”

Then Malfoy let him go as abruptly as he’d grabbed him, turned and Apparated away.

Harry remained in the same spot for several minutes, until the cold had cleared his head sufficiently to allow him to Apparate home without Splinching himself. In this state, he’d be likely to leave his cock in the laneway, which would make all the wanking he planned to do when he got home significantly more difficult.

As it was, Harry didn’t remember his leather jacket was still at the nightclub until Sunday morning.


End file.
